


Carrion

by nehemiah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Slow Build, those two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:38:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nehemiah/pseuds/nehemiah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon Divergence, AFFC and ADWD. The pious dwarf is tragically crushed by a runaway oxcart just before he meets Brienne. She doesn't get the tip-off about Dick Crabb and proceeds directly to the Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gulltown

**Author's Note:**

> My first ASOIAF/GOT fic. Be kind. Mostly book canon, with a few nods to the TV adaptation.
> 
> Brienne’s chapters in AFFC are evocative, atmospheric, and flesh out her character extremely well. They’re also a complete wild goose chase (hence, presumably, the inn name). She was all set to go the Vale to find Sansa before she got distracted by the dwarf sparrow and his story about Dick Crabb and the fool. How would AFFC have played out if she hadn’t picked up that false lead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With no reason to linger in Maidenpool, Brienne jumps on the first boat.
> 
> The divergence means that Hyle Hunt will be Ser-Not-Appearing-In-This-Fic. I gave the poor guy some flashback time as compensation.  
> Mostly scene-setting, more action to come, and there will EVENTUALLY be some J/B.

‘My lady? Is that it? Gulltown, I mean.’

Brienne could see how the place had picked up its name. Even out to sea, she could hear the cries of the gulls, and see them circling in flocks around the cliffs that flanked the town. Between them, a sprawl of off-white red-roofed houses stretched all the way across the bay, and even snaked their way up the hills behind. Gulltown was easily the largest place they’d stopped in since leaving King’s Landing. Untouched by the war, it _bustled_ , jetties crammed with ships of different shapes and sizes. On one side of the town there was a stone keep, flying three banners, but the only sigil she recognised was that of House Arryn.

_Lady Arryn is dead. Some singer pushed her off a mountain._

Brienne had been dismayed by Tarly’s words back at Maidenpool, thinking for a moment that poor Sansa was truly lost. _I cannot blindly ride the length of the realm, asking every goodwife if they have seen a red-haired highborn maid of three-and-ten,_ she’d thought. But then she remembered that Lady Arryn had a young son. He was family to Sansa… of a sort. Even if she wasn’t there, the boy might know something useful. And a _singer_? The Maid of Tarth knew better than most how gossip shifted with the telling. Could that have been the fool, Dontos Hollard? It was a chance as thin as a hair, but better than nothing.

So they’d made their way to the docks and bought passage on the _Merling King_ , a slender Braavosi galley whose captain intended to stop at Gulltown on his way home. The crossing had been choppy, and Podrick had struggled with greensickness, but the crew were capable hands and they’d made good time. She tried to remember the maps she’d seen in the capital. From here, a road wound its way through the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, rising all the way, until it came to a high pass which led into the Vale proper, just a day or so from the Eyrie.

 _I am coming, Sansa_ , she thought, raising her eyes to the faint, mist-veiled outlines of the peaks in the distance.

There was a polite throat-clearing behind her. She and Podrick turned to see the captain, who bowed ingratiatingly. ‘My lady... we will be docking soon. The rules of customs in Gulltown are strict. You may not disembark until my cargo is unloaded. Then you must meet the harbourmaster and declare your business.’

Brienne clucked her tongue. She had hoped to make her way ashore without announcing herself. Between Randyll Tarly’s contempt and Hyle Hunt’s sly mockery, she’d had enough of knights and lords for one journey. Travelling through the Vale quietly had seemed the best idea, not drawing too much attention along to themselves. If the lords of the Vale were protecting Sansa, and got wind of her purpose, they might think her an enemy. She already met one other knight on the road who hunted the girl, and for less noble reasons than her own.

 _This captain must have some experience of smuggling_ , she thought. _Perhaps for a few stags he would have landed me in some hidden place along the shore._ But it was too late for that now, with a harbour pilot’s boat already on its way out to them. As the _Merling King_ slid closer, she could see figures waiting on the dockside – a slender man in a feathered cap of office, and a grey-haired knight in a black and red surcoat. A few men-at-arms lounged against crates behind them.

‘Do you recognise the arms, Podrick?’ she asked.

‘No. I don’t think so,’ he admitted, blushing.

‘Nor I.’ Some hedge knight, presumably, in the service of the lords of the town. How much should she tell him of their purpose? Perhaps she should simply wave the royal warrant in her saddlebags and breeze past them, but that might only arouse more curiosity.

The deck was suddenly busy with sailors, rushing to prepare the ship for landing, and Brienne had to pull Podrick to one side to stop a swarthy Braavosi tripping over him. The pilot was lifted up onto the deck, and he and the captain bowed formally to each other. The _Merling King’s_ helmsman surrendered the wheel as they made their final approach, the calls of a thousand gulls echoing around them.

 

The knight in red and black had come aboard to speak with the captain, and the two men talked below decks for some time. Brienne took in the bleak stony cliffs – so different to the lushness of Tarth – and watched as a mass of cloud slowly overtook the sky. Pod shuffled his feet and stared wordlessly over the rail into the grey waters.

Brienne thought of Ser Hyle Hunt, back at Maidenpool, how she’d told him nothing of her quest and curtly refused his offers of assistance, and his crestfallen expression. _I owe the man nothing_ , she told herself. _I have no reason to feel guilt._ The painful memories of her time in Renly’s camp rushed into her mind _._

Hunt was plain compared to the other suitors, and less boastful, although there was no denying his quick and ready wit. The others had tried to win her over with extravagant gifts and performances, but Hyle had always seemed more down to earth. He’d come to see her most days, usually offering nothing more than the gossip of the camp and a sharp remark about the proclivities of one knight or another.

‘I bring a basket of delicacies for the loveliest maiden in camp,’ he’d told Brienne one morning at the threshold of her tent. She’d blushed, awkward as always, and stammered that another young knight had already brought her breakfast.

‘Not you,’ he’d said with feigned scorn. ‘I was referring to _this_ lady,’ and strolled over to Brienne’s mare, removing the cloth from the basket to reveal a pile of carrots and apples. He stood and fed the horse, eyes shining, and Brienne couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

She had begun to open up a little, talking of her home and her impossible dreams of knighthood. Hunt’s next gift surpassed everything; a beautifully illuminated book full of tales of chivalry and heroism. She’d almost wept. ‘Perhaps it is too great a gift, my lady,’ he’d said, eyeing her carefully. ‘But I can think of nobody who would suit it better.’

Then he’d asked her to spar with him. It had been what Brienne wanted, more than any gift, and she had put aside her usual wariness and agreed. They followed a stream some half a mile away from the camp and found a suitable field, green, dew-flecked, lined with oaks. Brienne knocked Hunt off his feet three times in as many minutes. ‘I am not some foolish damsel who has stumbled into a war camp by mistake,’ she’d protested as he recovered his sword and picked himself up. ‘You do not need to hold back.’ Hunt’s easy manner had dropped for the first time, and she saw a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘As my lady wishes,’ he’d almost growled, and they began to spar in earnest.

Hunt was quick, and sometimes inventive, but he couldn’t put as much strength into his blows as Brienne. He was predictable too, she thought – his feints were unconvincing, his stance and expression always giving him away. She wondered if that was how he picked up the scar on his cheek – some brawl where his opponent had read his intentions too easily. All the same, he was a worthwhile partner, and both of them had their victories as the day wore on. Brienne had felt her inhibitions leaving her, sharing his smiles and laughs when one of them landed a particularly good blow.

By the time they stopped, flushed and damp with sweat, the afternoon sun had grown heavy and golden. They retraced their steps back to the camp, each smarting from a dozen weals and bruises, Brienne feeling happy and light-headed from being in her element. Hunt was smiling too, and spent the walk uncharacteristically silent. Outside her tent, Hunt had bowed and asked if he could have the honour of her company at supper. She’d agreed, for once unflustered, feeling the tiny hope that she’d been nursing all along begin to swell –

Brienne gripped the rail until her knuckles whitened. _She’d thought it was the happiest day of her life._ Tarly’s men-at-arms had arrived to fetch her a few hours later, and the hard old lord’s words had shattered _those_ illusions.

Back in Maidenpool, Hunt was as louche and careless as ever, but the manner Brienne had once found charming now infuriated her. He’d spoken to her as if no harm had been done; he even seemed to resent _her_ for the punishment duty Tarly had given him. He’d offered a shadow of an apology, but what could that mean, when he didn’t even understand that he had wronged?

 _It was only a game to pass the time._ He’d said. _We meant no harm_ …

She was startled out of her reverie when the red and black knight emerged onto the deck and walked directly across to them. He looked to be well into his fifties, and had the weatherbeaten skin of a man who had spent much of his life on the road. _And in alehouses_ , she thought, seeing the broken red veins around the man’s hooked nose. ‘I am Ser Oswell Kettleblack,’ he offered. ‘You and the boy may disembark now. Please follow me.’ They made their way down the gangplank, where the men-at-arms stood aside for them. Brienne could see her horse, and Podrick’s rouncey, already taken out of the hold and tied up to an unused mooring post. _Let us be on them and away from this place quickly_.

The harbourmaster was hovering close by, but Ser Oswell waved the man away impatiently and led Brienne and Podrick to a table outside a tavern whose sign was a burning tower. ‘Better that we talk out here, my lady. This town is full of eyes and ears.’ A couple of Ser Oswell’s men walked around the table, warning off any smallfolk who were lingering too near. ‘A highborn lady, in a man’s mail,’ he said flatly. ‘That is an interesting thing. What is your business in Gulltown?’

‘None, Ser.’ Brienne tried to keep her face expressionless. ‘We were only passing through. My business is elsewhere.’ Oswell crooked an eyebrow and stared at her unyieldingly. _I must tell him something._ ‘I seek a missing girl. My sister. A maid of three-and-ten.’

‘And you believe she passed through Gulltown?‘

‘I believe she is in the Vale, Ser. She will have come either through this port, or overland through the Bloody Gate.’

‘Why would your sister travel inland, my lady? The mountains are harsh, the road is unsafe, and war is coming. Surely a town of this size would be the perfect place to conceal a young girl... if she ever came to the Vale at all.’

‘War, in the Vale?’ she blurted. Then she remembered something Tarly had told her. ‘Petyr Baelish has declared himself Lord Protector,’ she recalled. ‘The other lords oppose him ruling in Lady Arryn’s name.’

Oswell nodded briskly. ‘They gather their armies as we speak. If… your sister is somewhere on the High Road, you had best pray for her.’ Brienne looked around her, trying to grasp this news. The Vale had stayed out of the War of Five Kings. Had Sansa escaped here, only to walk into another?

‘This… does not like a town at war,’ she said lamely.

‘The Lord Protector has many friends in Gulltown,’ shrugged Oswell. ‘He was Master of Customs here before he went to King’s Landing. He brought much wealth to the town. Some of the richest men here owe their fortunes to Petyr Baelish. Lords Arryn and Grafton will play no part in this… rising. And I am sure that it will be a short one.’

‘Which House are you sworn to, Ser?’ asked Brienne, a little uneasily.

Oswell smiled, showing his uneven teeth. ‘I am in personal service to Lord Arryn of the Eyrie. The Arryns of Gulltown are decidedly poor cousins. I will be returning to my lord’s side soon. Do you intend to travel inland from here?’

The bluntness of the question stunned Brienne. ‘Yes. Ser.’

‘To search for a missing girl of three-and-ten, whose name you dare not speak, who you suppose is heading to the Eyrie,’ said Oswell, his eyes suddenly blazing, rising to his feet. ‘I will not say the name we are both thinking. But you are not the first to come down this road.’

Brienne felt her stomach drop. ‘I… I am not seeking the girl for any prize,’ she whispered. ‘I swore an oath to protect her. I have not come to do her harm.’

Ser Oswell regarded her for a moment, then slapped a great calloused hand on the table. His men-at-arms congregated around him in a heartbeat. ‘That may or may not be, girl. I am setting out with my men tomorrow morning. You will come with us.’

‘Ser, I-‘

‘The choice is not yours. You and the boy are my prisoners.’


	2. The Vale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you for the feedback, it's warmly appreciated.
> 
> Here's another chapter.  
> The chronology I roughly had in mind for this was one chapter for each of B's chapters in AFFC. So the Gulltown instalment roughly corresponded to the second half of Brienne III (Maidenpool after the divergence point), and this chapter goes alongside Brienne IV (the long trek out to the Whispers). Not sure whether I'll be able to maintain this for the whole story, we'll see!
> 
> Next time, we'll meet a few of the more established characters.

‘I don’t wish to drag you in chains, but I will if I have to. We’ll be staying in inns for the first few nights. Wave your tongues and you’ll lose them. You’re not here to make friends.’

Brienne agreed, trying not think of the last time she had been taken prisoner. _This is a kinder captivity_ , she told herself. _These men are not the Bloody Mummers_. She had been relieved of her swordbelt, but Kettleblack’s half-dozen men-at-arms had not tied her hands or even searched her saddlebags _. If they did, they would find something truly precious_. The sword the men had seized was a decent castle-forged weapon she’d picked up before leaving King’s Landing. Wrapped securely in her bedroll was Oathkeeper, a blade so magnificent that she’d been hesitant to wear it openly. Even the boldest knight could be stabbed in an alleyway by thieves.

Nor had she revealed the King’s warrant. The lords of the Vale were known to be proud and independent, and had stayed carefully neutral in the war. It was hard to know whether using the boy king’s authority would help or hinder her purposes. If Sansa truly was here, she would have good reason to fear the Lannister name. Brienne vowed to bide her time.

From Gulltown, they moved up the coast road, busy with carts and smallfolk, the roar of the sea never far from their ears. Then the road veered north and started to climb sharply, the horses puffing and labouring under their loads, and Brienne knew were entering the Mountains of the Moon. ‘It’ll be tough going,’ one of the men prophesied, and she soon saw the truth of it. They climbed and toiled until there were no more villages and inns, and the path narrowed until they had to ride in column. Brienne felt a growing uneasiness in this empty landscape of crags and ravines. Gathering her courage, she determined to ask Ser Oswell what he intended to do with his prisoners.

It turned out the old knight had seen the look in her eyes, and pre-empted her. ‘You and the boy will not be having any long falls,’ he said with a cold smile. ‘If I wanted you dead, I would have struck the blow myself. You will get a fair hearing. Beyond that, I make no promises.’

‘Tell me honestly, ser. Is Lady Sansa at the Eyrie?’

‘Yes and no.’

 _Fair hearing?_ Brienne thought of the stories Podrick had told her of his former master’s captivity in the Vale, how he’d resorted to demanding a trial by combat, then escaped with the aid of the mountain clans. Tall tales, to be sure, but no endorsement of the justice of the Arryns.

She thought of home, not for the first time. Tarth had highlands too, but the verdant meadowed valleys Brienne held so dear were nothing like this rocky desolation. The trees here all seemed to be stunted and bare of foliage, and deadening mist clung to the ground even at the height of the day. The cloud that had overtaken the sky back at Gulltown remained, and after a week the sun seemed like a distant memory.

Brienne felt a growing dislocation creeping over her. Time and place seemed to drift away – every day, there was the same greyness and the same rocks. Her captors barely spoke to her and did not trust her with a watch, so she was left idle every night, though she was too wary to sleep well or for long. Tiredness began to seep into her mind as well as her body.

The clouds had remained light rather than turning dark and stormy, and the chill was growing, particularly in the mornings. Brienne only remembered one winter, but she knew the signs of coming snow. How did the Lords of the Vale hope to make war against the Eyrie, with winter coming? She bowed her head as they trudged on, and tried not to think of Sansa besieged and starving in some mountain fastness. _Like Lady Shella awaiting the Rainbow Knight_ , she thought dizzily. _I am no knight, though I once wore a rainbow on my shoulders_ …

 

They travelled hard, and came at length to a bare plateau, some half a mile across, studded with small pools. Here Kettleblack announced that they would stop and water the horses. The mountain peaks, white-capped, loomed all around them like watchers, and Brienne muzzily remembered the bearpit at Harrenhal. Fog hung and swirled stubbornly. When Podrick and one of the men led their mounts off to the closest pool, they vanished from sight. _It would be easy to disappear here_. But Brienne never thought of escape; her lethargy of mind lingered like the mists.

She forced herself up, despite the aching in her muscles, and stamped around, thinking to stay active and shake off her numbness. The brown rocky soil crunched under her feet as she approached the edge of the plateau, and there the landscape fell away before her. For the first time, Brienne could see the downhill section of the pass, as steep as the way they had come, and crowded by solemn grey pines. It was a grim enough prospect, but there seemed to be more life down there than they had seen on the seaward side of the mountains. Hazily in the distance, Brienne fancied she could see a hint of green; could that be the Vale of Arryn itself?

When she walked back to the others, two of the men-at-arms were busying themselves making a fire; strange, in the middle of the day, and in such an exposed place… but not unwelcome. She looked around for Kettleblack, and saw that he had found himself a seat. A spur of rock, widest at the base and some ten feet high, thrust up from the plateau; halfway up its height, there was an almost flat surface, and there the old knight sat like a king on a throne, gazing back down the way they had come with an intent expression.

Seeing her approach, he waved her forward.

‘Ser?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Your men are starting a cooking fire. Are we to stay here long?’ _I mislike this place_ , she added almost aloud.

‘It’s not a cookfire,’ he said. ‘But we may be some time.’ And with that returned to his vigil over the dead forest.

Minutes or hours passed. Podrick returned; the men-at-arms hunkered down one side of the fire, setting blankets and clothes down on the ground, grumbling about the day’s pace in low voices. Brienne, so detached she almost felt like she was floating. reluctantly lowered herself down too. She blinked heavily, and all of a sudden, a ragged man stood before them.

Had she drifted into sleep and so missed the man’s approach? Or had the mist hidden his steps? He was tall and black-haired, wearing a crude skin tunic and furs, and a notched axe hung around his waist. He had twin white scars on his cheeks, S-shaped, too perfectly matched to have been earned in battle. This can only have been one of the mountain clansmen.

‘Urren,’ called Ser Oswell, clambering down off his throne.

‘I’ve waited,’ complained the other man. ‘Waited for you, while my brothers enjoy their sport.’ But the two men gripped hands like old comrades.

‘I’ve had much to do,’ said Oswell . ‘What news from the Eyrie?’

‘Much to do, since you became Lord Finger’s servant,’ laughed the tribesman. ‘He still rules on the mountain. The other lords marched out, made a great noise, and marched back, days ago. It has been good for us. The horsemen are busy riding up and down, and nobody chases us away from your flocks.’

Kettleblack nodded, showing no surprise. ‘We’re riding back to the mountain now. Will any of your friends be waiting for us?’

Urren grinned. ‘I would not rob you. The years between us are too long, and sellswords are too poor to be worth the trouble.’ He considered. ‘The Stone Crows have been raiding into the Vale. Those are treacherous birds. Some paths are not safe.’

The insinuation did its work; they grasped hands again, and this time there was a flash of silver between them.

‘Let us move, then. I will bring you safely into the Vale. The Milk Snakes keep their word.’

 

Once they passed the treeline, the atmosphere seemed to change, as if the thin air of the mountains had stretched their fellowship as well as their lungs. The men-at-arms began to chatter and jest among themselves, and made sport of Podrick, ragging on his shyness and clumsy horsemanship until the boy blushed. Urren told inflated stories of his victories. Even Ser Oswell spoke amiably, talking of his pride in three sons who had earned knighthoods on foreign battlefields, and his hopes that the Kettleblacks would one day become a landed house. Brienne was the only one who didn’t feel the shift, and she remained quiet, pulling her long legs into her and staring at their fire.

That night she dreamed of cruel scarring blades, and of Rorge, looming monstrously over her. ‘You’re not here to make friends,’ he leered. ‘Shall I take a tongue, or an eye?’ She reached for her sword, _but it was gone –_ she turned to flee and ending up falling, endlessly falling, laughter ringing in her ears, and some terrible cold hand clutched at her face…

She woke trembling, and realised that something real had filtered down into her dreams - the long-threatened snow had started falling, flakes falling onto her upturned face. Looking around, she could see the others had were still sleeping. The only movement was from the man on watch, pacing around with this back to her. She lay awake until dawn.

Brienne rode the next morning in a daze, leaning heavily over her saddle, and when figures loomed out of the greyness ahead, she reacted sluggishly, not reining in her mount until she was a few paces clear of the rest of her party. On the road in front of her stood four knights.

Urren swore at the sight, darting a glance over his shoulder as if thinking of fleeing, but by the time the riders had emerged from the mists it was too late to avoid them. They were no hedge-knights clad in oddments; these men were encased in heavy, finely detailed plate and full helms. One carried a pennant with a sigil; a red tower on white. They made no greeting, simply sitting impassively in their saddles, until one of them spurred his horse forward, crossing the distance between the groups.

‘Ser Jon Redfort,’ he said lightly, touching his visor in salute.

Brienne could see bright green eyes and a smooth face – this knight could not have been long out of his teens. He gave an affected sigh when he saw the man who had dismounted and stepped forward to parley. ‘Kettleblack. Always an unwelcome sight. Why does it not surprise me to see you consorting with mountain raiders?’

‘Ser Kettleblack to you, boy,’ stated Oswell. ‘And I thought your Lord Father had come round to my master’s way of thinking.’

‘He remains undecided, _Ser_. Perhaps he is hesitant to bend the knee to a glorified brothelkeeper, and stand alongside a… _knight_ who would shelter those who burn his villages and kill his smallfolk.’

‘It is curious,’ he said, leaning over his saddle and nodding at Urren, ‘how these savages only plague the lands of those lords who oppose your master.’ He sniffed, and his eyes came back to Brienne and Podrick. ‘And you’ve taken prisoners. A woman and a boy. Fierce must have been the fray at which you earned these trophies.’

‘They’re going to the Eyrie,’ grunted Oswell.

‘For an audience with the brothelkeeper himself!’ He gave Brienne a brilliant smile. ‘That is a great honour, my lady, but count all of your valuables before you leave the room.’ Then he turned back to Kettleblack. ‘You may pass unhindered, but first you will surrender the hillman into my custody.’

‘Turn around go home, boy,’ snarled the old knight, his face darkening. ‘I’ve heard enough. I spilt blood with this man, and he’s not mine to give up.’

‘Take some time to reconsider, ser, or you will spill blood together again.’ Redfort gave a mocking half-bow, then turned his horse and trotted back toward his escort. _So unconcerned_ , thought Brienne vaguely. _As if he were riding to take his place in the lists._

But Kettleblack had followed, rage quickening his strides. The youth looked over his shoulder just in time to see the older man catch up, but too late to react. Kettleblack pulled an armoured boot from its stirrup and shoved its owner bodily over his saddle. Redfort fell awkwardly, still clinging to his reins, and sprawled onto the ground. The horse shied away, peering out from its chamfron, as Ser Oswell stood over him.

‘I don’t know how it’ll end up, boy. Your three friends against my six. But I can promise you that you’ll be the first to meet the Stranger today. Yield the road.‘

‘I would only yield to a _knight_ ,’ gasped Redfort, edging away on his shoulders. ‘Your looting friends and your cut-throat sons can all be damned.’

At that, the old man drew his sword, and there was a flash of fear in the boy’s eyes – but one of the other horsemen was already charging across the distance, weapon raised, and Kettleblack was forced to turn and change his stance to meet him.

Oswell danced aside, metal screamed on metal, and when the knight reined his horse around, blood was running down from the gap around the knee joint of his cuisses.

At the sight of that red flow, the numbness that had lain so heavily on Brienne abruptly fled. She breathed deeply, feeling the sting of the cold air, suddenly as alive to sensation as one convalescent from sickness. Thoughts flowed back into her mind, one paramount above all – _my sword_.

Deaf to the oaths and cries erupting all around her, she vaulted down and pulled at the straps that secured her bedroll to her saddlebags. A few more moments of fumbling and it was there, the reassuring weight, the shine of the metalwork and jewels. _Oathkeeper._

One of Kettleblack’s men was watching with wide eyes, and stepped over, a weighted club in hand, but Brienne had drawn and moved almost before she’d willed it. The bright metal flew, and then the man was drawing back in shock, bleeding from the chest. It wasn’t a deep wound, Brienne had swung at arm’s length, but she’d barely felt the resistance of the man’s gambeson.

‘Stay back,’ she growled, then yelled hoarsely, ‘Podrick, to me!’ She looked round and had a glimpse of a man-at-arms falling, skull cleaved by a sword blow, two of the armoured horsemen now in the midst of them. Then she was moving. There was a way down the side of the road, steep but manageable, and she led her mare down, causing scree to tumble down the slope and dust to rise up in clouds. Podrick appeared at speed, stumbling, trying to retain his feet despite his momentum. She reached out and grabbed the boy’s arm.

‘Your horse?’ she yelled over the shouts and the song of metal.

‘They have it,’ he answered, desperation in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t get near-‘

Half-sliding down the slope, loose rocks falling away under their feet, they came to a grove of dead trees. Here Brienne leaned against a trunk and looked back again. Men still fought on the road, but through the thickening bursts of snow she couldn’t tell much. Any man who looked up from the struggle was bound to see them.

‘There’s more forest down there, my lady,’ offered Podrick. She turned and saw it, a vast dark expanse of pines. It would be the perfect place to lose pursuit, if they could make the steep descent safely.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Shift your weight carefully.’ And they made their way by fits and starts, until the sounds of battle were lost to them.

 

The dense weave of branches offered some shelter from the snow, but also blocked the meagre sunlight, and they were forced to stop for the night earlier than Brienne would have liked. She told Podrick not to light a fire.

‘I couldn’t anyway, my lady. The firesteel and tinder were in my packs,’ said Pod. ‘So were the cooking pots. And the waterskins. And the food. ’

‘Careless of you to leave all that behind,’ muttered Brienne, but forced herself to smile when she saw Pod’s hurt expression. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re here and we’re safe. Water won’t be a problem if it keeps snowing. And there must be animals in these woods. Tonight we’ll just sleep.’

She was wary of the dreams that might come to her if she slept, but she could see through Pod’s eyes how haggard and exhausted she must look. ‘I’ll watch first, my lady,’ he offered. ‘I’ll wake you up if anyone comes. I promise.’

Nobody came, and Podrick took a longer watch than Brienne had expected. By the time she woke up, shivering despite her blanket, the patches of sky visible between the branches were greyish-white. The boy was huddled in his travelling cloak on the other side of the clearing.

‘You should have woken me,’ she mumbled, thick tongue labouring in her dry mouth. ‘We need to cover ground.’ _I didn’t dream at all._

That afternoon they found a knight of the Vale dead at the edge of the woods, half-buried in snow.

Brienne brushed his face clear and looked. He was young too, as young as Redfort, and had a fashionably trimmed beard. Blue eyes stared endlessly up at the sky. He had been stripped of sword, gorget, and breastplate. The wound that killed him had dented in one side of his open-faced helmet, so his killers had left that behind. His gloves had gone too, and one of the man’s bare hands had been… _chewed_. She told herself it must have been the work of scavenging shadowcats, and tried not to dwell on the thought.

Finding a flint and some dry pine needles, Pod managed to get a fire started, and they caught a mountain hare that was snuffling around on the far side of the clearing. Brienne said a prayer for the dead knight, then they sat and ate ravenously.

They toiled through that wood for another two days before the pines finally gave way to meadows of wild flowers, rolling down to the valley floor. The snow hadn’t settled down here, but the clouds still hung heavy in the sky. Brienne was leading her mare through the tall stems, her boots and breeches soon wet with dew.

She had always heard that the Vale of Arryn was fair and peaceful. But she could see plumes of black smoke rising up along the valley, and the fields that stretched out in front of them seemed altogether too quiet. The only body they could see was a scarecrow on a distant hilltop, rags flapping in the wind. Had the clansmen come so far into the lowlands, or was this as a result of the lords’ rebellion? Urren had talked as if that had passed without bloodshed.

Podrick gave her a look of concern, and she nodded. ‘We’ll go carefully. Help me into my armour.’

She’d been wearing her heavy skirted gambeson all along, and had almost cursed it in the hardest sections of the climb, but now it was time to be cautious. The blue-black plates that fitted so neatly over the top were stowed in the largest of her saddlebags, lying within each other, taking up less space than might be supposed. _A magnificent gift_ , she thought, trying to call to mind Jaime’s face that day in the white tower. _Fair to look upon, almost perfectly fitted, and practical too_. She hadn’t worn it since leaving Maidenpool.

Podrick helped her with the shoulder and backplates, where the straps and arming points were difficult to reach, and she flexed her arms, trying to get the weight to settle. Then the boy refastened Oathkeeper’s scabbard around her waist, and she drew herself up. She was free, she was armoured, and she had her sword; for all the hunger and cold, she felt like _herself_ again. The Giant’s Lance was clearly visible off to the west, standing head and shoulders above the other mountains, and Brienne supposed that if they kept that landmark in sight, they would not lose their way.

‘First we’ll find some food, and another horse for you. Then we’re going to the Eyrie.’

Podrick grinned, seeming to catch her mood. ‘Yes. My lady.'

 

Further down the valley, they found a track, a farmer’s road with deep wheel ruts, and they trudged along it hoping to see some smallfolk or some sign of life. By noon, it had led them to a village protected by a wooden palisade and tower, built on the banks of a stream that was lazily turning a waterwheel. The people of the village waved and called from their wall, and a few of them hesitantly emerged from the wooden gates. Brienne told Podrick to wait and rode forward, but when she came within hailing distance, the smallfolk disappeared back inside, the gates were hurriedly pushed closed, and silence fell.

As Brienne drew her horse up before the gates, wondering how to announce herself, a heavyset middle-aged man peered over the stockade, looking at her sceptically.

‘From a distance, we took you for a knight. What’s your business?’ he demanded. ‘We have thirty bows within.’

 _Half that, if they’re lucky_. ‘We are peaceful travellers. I am seeking-‘

‘Whatever you’re seeking, you won’t find it here. You be on your way. Unless you and your friend want to catch some arrows.’

‘I would buy any food you could spare,’ she tried. ‘I have silver.’

The man snorted. ‘Silver? You’ve got steel, too. I’m sure you’d prefer to just take what you want. But you won’t be taking anything from us. Begone.’

‘Please, sers,’ began Brienne, but before she could continue, an arrow sang through the air and disappeared into the grass, just a few feet away. She took a deep breath and turned her mare around, heading back to Podrick, who had ducked down in the grass.

‘We’ll have no welcome here, Pod. Better hope there are rabbits In the fields, or we won’t be eating today.’

As the sun began to dip low, they came to a farmhouse, deserted and apparently looted. There were no people and no animals, but no signs of fighting or damage. ‘The raiders must have come after the owners fled,’ Brienne said. ‘See if they left anything behind.’

Podrick looked to the stables first, hoping to find a horse, but it was empty as the rest of the house. Then he found a stone-walled outbuilding that had been left untouched, and inside, along with some rusty tools, there was some old bread and half a wheel of strong cheese. They ate, and packed their bags with what was left. ‘We’ll leave money for this,’ she told Podrick. ‘We’re not thieves.’

‘Someone will steal the money, though. Some people are. Thieves.’

‘The tribesmen don’t care for coin.’ _But there may be worse people._ ‘We’ll hide it somewhere. In the larder. That way, if the owners come back, they’ll understand what it’s for.’ They both knew that that possibility was remote.

There were straw pallets in one room, and Brienne let the boy sleep first, sensitive as to how he’d marched on his feet where she’d been on horseback. It occurred to her that she had been neglecting Podrick’s training. They hadn’t had a chance to spar in the whole time they’d been captives, and he’d lost his short sword along with his horse. She looked down at him as he slept, pondering the strange responsibility she had been left with. _No family, no master, and he risked everything to follow me. What will the boy do if I fulfil my oath?_

She spent a few hours walking the grounds in near-darkness, pushing away her tiredness, trying to remember the stories of Galladon and Serwyn word-for-word, the way her father had told them, and the songs that had always played in his hall; 'A Misty Morn _'_ , about a search for a missing child. 'Brave Danny Flint', about a girl who dressed as a boy to fight. Why did they always have sad endings? She remembered the song about the bear too, the one she’d loved so much as a girl, that now only brought painful thoughts.

‘I came through that unharmed,’ she said out loud, ‘and I will come through this too.’

She woke Podrick for his watch a couple of hours before dawn, but hardly seemed to have closed her eyes when the boy woke her by whispering in her ear. There was an old barn, perhaps part of the same farm, a few fields away. And Pod’s keen eyes had seen dark shapes moving near it, barely visible silhouettes against the twilight.

‘They might have been there all along,’ said Brienne, looking where he pointed. ‘They might have seen us arrive.’ It was difficult to see details, but she guessed there were at least three or four of them. ‘We should leave before it gets too light.’

They did just that, leaving the barn behind them, and soon a cold hard rain began to fall. The track turned muddy and within an hour they were both wet through. Through her soaked hair, Brienne could see a hovel in a field ahead – It was half-tumbled, but would give some shelter until the downpour slackened. She and Pod were approaching the building when three men sauntered out.

They were mountain clansmen in their furs and leathers, armed with great axes. They hesitated at the sight of armour and steel, but grinned malevolently when they saw that Brienne was a woman, spreading out as if to surround her. _Three men, hardened warriors, and only an unarmed boy at my side_. She touched the hilt of Oathkeeper for reassurance, and forced herself to stand her ground.

‘Come no closer,’ she hissed.

One of them, a slim man covered in tribal markings, had followed the movement of her hand, and abruptly stopped. The other two looked to him warily.

‘I am Gunthor of the Stone Crows. And you are a gold lion,’ he said, jerking a thumb at Oathkeeper’s ornate hilt. ‘You fight for the halfman?’

 _Halfman?_ Podrick looked at her, wide-eyed, and she remembered his stories of his former master. ‘No. But… the sword was given to me by… by the halfman’s brother.’

Gunthor had that sinister grin back on his face. ‘Halfman gave us steel too. He promised us steel, and he gave it. Then he promised us the Vale. That, we are taking for ourselves.’ With that, he made an all-encompassing gesture, and Brienne tried not to think of the boy knight, sightless blue eyes staring up from his smashed helmet.

‘The halfman took a wife,’ she tried. ‘A pretty red-haired young maid. She was taken, and I am searching for her. Have your people seen her?’

He waved the question off. ‘Maids do not travel through the Vale now. Our people, and the knights, that is all.’

‘The lords of the Vale may have her,’ Brienne persisted. ‘In the Eyrie. Will you give us safe passage there?’

Gunthor lowered his axe, and his men followed suit. ‘We are not going to the mountain,’ he said. ‘My people have a camp near here. Join us around our fire. Hear our songs, and sing yours.’

‘I don’t sing,’ said Brienne. ‘We have a purpose, we must stay on the road.’

‘Then go in peace. The Stone Crows do not break their bonds.’ Without further ceremony, he and his men went off down the lane.

Then, as rain beat upon the roof of the shack, Podrick _did_ begin to sing. He worked his way through ‘The Day They Hanged Black Robin’ in a wavering voice.

‘Don’t you know any more cheerful songs?’ grumbled Brienne.

‘Lord Tyrion always said that one wasn’t really a sad song,’ he said. ‘Men would clap through the verses, hearing about the things he did. They’d only get sad at the end. When he dies.’


	3. The Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’re really flying.
> 
> There are too many great unfinished fics on this site. I’m trying to get this hammered out quickly while I’ve still got the fire in my belly. 
> 
> Here’s where I started to use some things from the adaptation (calling the kid ‘Robin’, etc).

A castle stood at the the base of the mountain, stout and square with four grey towers. A moat surrounded it on three sides, while the fourth backed onto the bare stone of the mountain itself. It flew the sign of a portcullis on a bronze field. In front of the castle, the ground was trampled, the grass dead and fouled – from Brienne’s time in Renly’s camp, she recognised that an army had been camped here. _The Lords Declarant. They marched out, and marched back._

They’d spent the best part of the day climbing out of the valley to arrive here, and found the road to be unusually busy, crowded with farmers’ carts and smallfolk. Even a great wench in armour, travelling with a squire, hardly drew a second glance. ‘Where is everyone going?’ she’d asked an old man pushing a handbarrow.

‘Lord Nestor’s throwing a feast, in honour of the young Lord Robin,’ he replied, squinting up at her warily.

The road stretched around the moat to the front of the castle, the gatehouse staring defiantly down into the vale road, apparently untouched by any siege or attack. Brienne had expected them to be challenged on the walls, but the great gates were open and the drawbridge already lowered. She could see into the courtyard, full of men unloading wares from their carts and wagons.

They’d finally found a horse for Pod; the clink of gold had persuaded a merchant on the road to part with a small but serviceable brown hobby. The pair of them led their horses into the courtyard, but had barely started looking for a stable when they were noticed. Her sword and armour had finally attracted attention. A few spearmen in bronze-and-black were regarded them suspiciously. ‘Ho! What’s your business?’ challenged one of them, jogging down the stairs into the yard.

‘I would speak with your lord,’ said Brienne. ‘I seek a missing girl.’

Two of the men had gone off into the keep, but came back not with the lord of the castle, but with a stocky greying knight with a broken nose. His surcoat was white with a brown bear’s paw. Brienne bit back a smile at the sight of it. The man looked her up and down, and cast a glance at Podrick.

‘Lord Nestor’s busy.’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m the castellan. Lothor Brune. A missing girl, is it?’ There was a flash in his eyes that Brienne couldn’t read. She vowed to present her case more firmly than she had in front of Randyll Tarly.

‘That is so. I believe Lord Robin might know something that would help me in my search. Has he come down for the feast?’

‘No, but he’s expected. Today or the next day, I should think.’

‘I am loath to waste time, ser. Might I travel up the mountain to see him?’

The old knight scratched his head. ‘It’s a three day climb on foot, and those horses of yours won’t make it. Most people use mules. You want to talk to Mya, I suppose. Tall girl with dark hair. You’ll most likely find her in the stables by the postern gate. ‘

‘I thank you, ser.’

‘Don’t thank me until you’ve met her,’ smiled Brune. ‘I hope you’re persuasive.’

 

Behind the postern gate was a yard with stables and a well, and beyond those, great carved steps stretched up the mountain. There was a party preparing to leave – half a dozen figures were working purposefully around a train of mules. Already mounted, and waiting impatiently by the steps, were two young men and a round-cheeked young woman. Another girl, lean, tall, and dark-haired, was in front of them, securing a saddle.

‘Are you Mya?’ The girl was dressed boyishly, in breeches and leather, and her hair was roughly cut short. _She’s pretty enough, though. She could wear gowns if she wished to._

She didn’t look up from her work. ‘I am. What do you want?’

‘Is Lord Robin coming down the mountain today?’

‘That I do not know. He should have come down a week ago, but the young lord does as he pleases.’

‘Lord Nestor is throwing him a feast.’

‘He is, and perhaps that will be enough to entice our lord down.’ She didn’t sound convinced. Mya straightened up and gave Brienne a long, appraising look. ‘What’s your interest in him?’

 _The girl has striking eyes_ , Brienne told herself. _Why do they seem familiar?_ ‘I would speak with him. About… his family.’

‘Then you’d be best wait here. He’ll come down when he comes down. I already have Randa, and my lads. I can’t take any more people up today.’

‘We can pay,’ tried Brienne.

‘You could be as rich as a Lannister, and it would make no difference. You’re not going up today.’

With a curt nod, she led her mule to the rest of her party, and after a few final words of instruction, they set off up the path, leaving Brienne and Podrick alone in the yard.

 

They bought ryebread and apples from a cart-owner, and sat eating in the outer courtyard, watching the stewards and servants come and go. For the first time since they’d arrived in the Vale, there were gaps in the cloud, and Brienne caught glimpses of a reddening sun.

‘We could ask Lord Royce to stay under his roof,’ suggested Podrick. ‘He might invite us to the feast.’

‘We don’t have the clothes for it,’ said Brienne. ‘We should find some other place to stay, and present ourselves to Lord Royce in the morning.’

Then a horn sounded from outside, answered by one from the walls, and a group of a dozen riders made their way into the courtyard. Their horses were blowing hard, and Brienne could tell that they’d been moving fast. Most of the men looked like warriors, but Brienne’s eye was drawn to a slim man in fashionably cut black tunic at the front of his group. He had a neatly trimmed beard and flecks of grey at his temples.

Then the man dismounted, and Brienne had a first clear look at the rider behind him. Tall, white-haired, hook-nosed… she stood up.

He looked over, and blew out his breath, a white cloud condensing in the air in front of him. He dismounted and strolled across the courtyard.

‘I’m surprised to see you again, girl.’

She looked at the man’s face, feeling her heart sink. ‘Did you kill the knight?’

‘Redfort? No. The boy was a fool, but I wasn’t fool enough to slay him. That would earn his father’s enmity, whatever story we told. One of his men died of wounds. The rest yielded. We let them go.’

‘They killed some of your men-at-arms.’

Oswell’s jaw clenched. ‘Aye. And if my lads had been highborn, maybe they’d get some justice, instead of unmarked graves halfway up a mountain.’ He looked at Brienne, and sniffed. ‘You came here instead of fleeing, which shows that you’re set on this task of yours. Now my lord’s back, he’ll decide what to do with you. Wait here.’

He went and whispered frantically to the black-clad man, who gave her a glance, and nodded sharply. Oswell returned with two guardsmen.

‘The Lord Protector invites you to meet him in Lord Nestor’s solar. Just you. The boy stays here.’

 

Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale, stretched languidly in his seat, regarding Brienne from the other side of a great oaken desk piled with maps and papers. Oswell hovered protectively behind the man, one hand on his belt.

‘Ah… forgive me. A long and hard ride, but my duties take me all over the Vale. My friend here sings an interesting song, my lady. He tells me you escaped his captivity, and drew steel on his men. Why should I not throw you in a dungeon now?’

‘I committed no crime against the Lords of the Vale,’ said Brienne, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘And you will not interfere with me, because I bear the warrant of the king.’ She handed the parchment to Oswell, who gave it to Baelish.

The old warrior snorted. ‘You kept that quiet, girl. Maybe you’re not such a fool as you look.’

Baelish made a show of reading the paper, then shoved it back across the table, adopting a harried expression. ‘The girl you seek is _not here_ , do you understand? I am the Lord Protector of the Vale, and I cannot protect these lands if the roads are full of freebooting knights in search of missing girls and rewards. Others have come before you. Three of them are in Lord Nestor’s hall now. They will tell you that this a dead end.’

‘Then why do you entertain them?’ said Brienne vaguely.

‘I’ve taken them into my household. These three seemed like capable men, and I have need of swords. You will forgive me if I do not offer you the same courtesy, my lady. I value _loyalty_ very highly.’

She wondered what that meant. ‘I must still speak with Lord Robin. May I have your leave to wait here until they arrive from the Eyrie?’

‘If you must,’ said Baelish. ‘I cannot deny the wishes of our young king. Avail yourself of our hospitality. Go to the hall, and join your three friends.’

 

 

The feast hall was a long room with curtained alcoves and a great fireplace at one end. The hall and its great long tables were empty, places not yet laid for the following day’s feast, but there was a smaller fire lit in one corner, and three men sat around a table covered in wine cups.

One was old and red-nosed, and well into his cups. Another was young, blond, and handsome, halfway through regaling his friends with some tale. The third…

‘Bugger me,’ said Shadrich. ‘Look who it is.’

‘Ser Shadrich,’ Brienne said uncertainly, feeling the three scornful gazes boring into her as she came to stand before the group. She’d gone to fetch Podrick, and stabled the horses, and tried to delay this moment as long as she could.

‘Have any luck finding that sister of yours?’ He grinned, and nudged the man next to him. ‘A highborn red-haired girl of three-and-ten. Travelling with a fool.’

‘Fancy that. We came here looking for someone very similar.’ The blond man cleared his throat dramatically. ‘I am Ser Byron, the sot beside me is Sir Morgarth. You already know this vagabond, then?’

‘Indeed,’ smiled the small knight. ‘We met on the road, but the wench fled by night before I could know her name.’

‘A common enough reaction,’ nodded Byron. ‘Might _I_ know your name, lady?’

 _This is only for one night. It is more comfortable here than outside_. ‘Brienne of Tarth. My squire, Podrick Payne.’

‘Hah! The Maid of Tarth!’ Morgarth was slurring his words. ‘There’s a song about you, wench, did ye know that?’

Brienne felt herself reddening, but squared her shoulders and addressed Shadrich. ‘Ser… Lord Baelish tells me you have entered his service.’

‘Well. The Stark girl most likely went north, and the North is bloody cold and bloody huge. Looking through a great waste of snow and ice to find one missing girl? Baelish offered us work with more certain rewards.’

He slid a wine cup across the table. ‘You should join us here, wench. If you get much more drink into Morgarth here, he’ll probably sing the damn song for you.’

She took the cup, but sat an adjoining table, making the knight roll his eyes.

‘Mistrustful, this one. Never mind, though. Get that wine down you, we’ll soon fix that.’

 

For a few hours Brienne and Pod sat with them, drinking sparingly and letting Byron’s tall stories dominate the conversation. Morgarth slumped on the table and began to snore. Then, sometime after dusk, Baelish came, and announced that the party from the Eyrie had arrived. He took Brienne aside.

‘If you still wish to speak to Lord Robin, now is probably the time. He has been… unwell, in the care of our Maester, and will have to be rested for the feast tomorrow.’

Brienne nodded, shaking the sleepiness out of her head. ‘I will.’

‘Here he comes, with my daughter. Do not tax him unduly with your questions.’

The young lord, paler and thinner than Brienne had expected, was ushered into the room, clinging to a dark-haired servant girl, not attempting to lower his voice.

‘Who’s that? I don’t want to talk to her. She’s very ugly. I bet she smells like mules too.’

‘Hush,’ chided the girl. ‘Be nice, or you won’t get those lemon cakes tomorrow. I’ll find out what she wants.’

Brienne stood up to introduce herself, when Podrick gasped and gripped her arm. The dark-haired girl looked up, saw Tyrion Lannister’s page, and her eyes widened, too.

‘My lady. It’s _her_.’

 

 

Silence unfolded, Pod and the girl staring dumbly at each other. Brienne tried to assemble her wits, and dropped to one knee. ‘My lady,’ she began. ‘I am Brienne of Tarth. I came here to – I swore an oath to your lady mother to protect you, and-‘

The girl just looked alarmed, and backed away, casting a glance at Baelish. ‘I-I’m Alayne Stone. You don’t know me.’

From the fireside table came the sound of a cup hitting the floor. Shadrich looked at Pod, then at Alayne, then at Baelish, and jumped to his feet, swearing.

‘Seven gods, you’re a bold one, Baelish. Spinning tales of the icy north, and hiding her right under our noses! How long have you been laughing about that?’ He stepped closer to Alayne. ‘Come to me, girl,’ he urged. ‘I won’t hurt you if you come peacefully. I’ve travelled a long way for you.’

‘Ser,’ said Baelish urgently, ‘you are a guest in this hall. Consider your position.’

‘Bugger Royce,’ declared the hedge knight. ‘This girl will make me rich enough to buy Lord Nestor and Bronze Yohn besides.’ He drew his sword. ‘Stay back and you won’t be harmed, Littlefinger.’

Brienne stepped in front of Shadrich, hands on her own sword. Byron stood up from his chair, brow creased in confusion.

‘YOU CAN’T HURT HER!’ shouted the boy, grabbing Alayne’s hands. ‘UNCLE PETYR!’

‘Put up your sword, man!’ yelled Baelish. ‘The girl you threaten is the Lord Protector’s daughter. How many guards have you seen in this castle? Put up your sword.’

Then he drew closer to Shadrich and continued in a lower voice. ‘Whatever it is that you think that you know… you could find silence a profitable enterprise. You will have an easier time getting rewards from me than from the Spider, or from Her Grace.’

The small man hesitated at that, and at length lowered his sword.

‘ _Good_ ,’ said Baelish. ‘Now let us-‘

‘No.’

The word had tumbled off Brienne’s lips almost unthinkingly. She’d watched the exchange, feeling a queer dull anger take over her, and could not hold back.

‘Do _not_ put up your sword, ser. Are you so easily cowed into submission? Come over here and take your prize. Or try. If you so much as touch this girl then, small as you are, I will cut you down even smaller.’

The taunt hit its mark. Shadrich bared his teeth and darted across the floor, making a lunging thrust at Brienne’s midriff. She brought Oathkeeper up quicky and parried, and when the swords locked, used her greater strength to throw Shadrich back. Ser Byron stood uncertainly, drawing his own sword, and Alayne and the young lord shrank back into a corner.

‘A strapping wench, and fast,’ grunted Shadrich. ‘But I’ve killed men bigger than you, and prettier too.’ He swung again, and Brienne parried just as easily. This time he quickly spun and reversed his thrust, trying to get inside Brienne’s guard, but she twisted to follow his movement and hit a glancing cut to the back of his head as she circled round.

 _This not a fight I can take my time with_ , Brienne thought. As the hedge knight caught his breath, she took the initiative, striding across the stone floor toward him. Their swords met three more times, then Shadrich misjudged her stance, and could not move his blade up to meet hers in time. Oathkeeper buried itself into the junction of his neck and shoulder, cutting through mail, flesh, and collarbone, and when Brienne wrenched the blade free, Shadrich collapsed to his knees, blind with pain and shock. He still clutched his sword, and his muscles tensed as he tried to push himself back up.

Brienne thought of Ser Goodwin, and what she’d told him about soft hearts and hesitation. She pushed her feelings away, kicked Shadrich’s head so that he sprawled onto his back, and thrust Oathkeeper into his chest.

She stood breathing deeply, feeling the blood singing in her veins. Baelish looked stunned, Alayne terrified. The boy was watching with rapt excitement. Brienne turned her attention to the other knight who was stood, sword drawn.

‘Well, ser? Will you come and claim your reward too? All the gold of the Lannisters is no use to a dead man.’

She took a single step toward his table by the fire, Baelish darted across the hall and grabbed Brienne’s sword arm with both of his, and then Royce’s guardsmen arrived, dashing into the room and stopping uncertainly.

‘Take those men!’ ordered Baelish, pointing at Byron with his sword in hand, and Morgarth still dead drunk by the fire. Three of the men hesitantly advanced on the blond knight.

‘What happened here, Baelish?’ growled the sergeant of the guards, looking at the scene. ‘His lordship’s on his way down.’

‘Alayne, get Robin to his bed,’ said Baelish, then gave the man a warm smile.

‘I will put your mind at rest, ser. But first, permit me a moment with the lady. I find myself quite overcome with lust.’ Then, with some difficulty, he pulled Brienne into an alcove and drew the heavy curtain behind them.

 

In the gloom of the alcove, Baelish’s dark eyes bored into hers. When he spoke it was in a soft and level tone. ‘You have spilt blood in Lord Nestor’s halls. He may want to spill yours in recompense. Tell me why I should defend you.’

‘I was defending Lady Sansa,’ Brienne whispered fiercely.

‘Say the name a little louder, please. Let us draw down every sellsword and bounty hunter in Westeros. Tell me: what is the girl to you?’

‘I am sworn to keep her safe.’

‘Are you. And at what point in your _colourful_ life did you develop such loyalty to her?’

‘You… do not know about my life, ser.’

‘Don’t be modest, my dear. You are quite memorable. Let me see. Brienne the Beauty. Hopelessly infatuated with Renly Baratheon. Blamed for his death. _Falsely_ ,’ he clarified, when she opened her mouth to argue. ‘I know that was Stannis’ work. Entered the service of Cat Stark. Delivered the Kingslayer to the capital and… saw a great deal of him. Left a few weeks later with his Valyrian steel sword.’

His eyes were alight with mockery. _He enjoys this_ , thought Brienne. _This game of whispers and secrets is one he has played all his life_.

‘All true, my lord,’ she almost spat. ‘I’ve heard a story about you too. That you once loved Catelyn Stark.’

He said nothing for a moment, then leered. ‘More than once, if I remember it right. Your point?’

Brienne pressed on. ‘I swore that I would protect her daughters from… those who would do them harm. Let me fulfil my oath, ser. Do not stand in my way.’

‘You think that I am doing the young lady harm?’ Baelish hissed. ‘I am protecting the girl. She was quite safe as Alayne. Then you and your fool of a squire blundered in and ruined it.’

Brienne was bolder than she’d ever been, still feeling the rush of combat in her veins, knowing that the end was near one way or the other.

‘Ser Shadrich was right about you, my lord. You are arrogant. You parade her in front of the world and gloat that nobody else is clever enough to see the truth. You enjoy that feeling.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ smiled Baelish. ‘You know I will have to those two hedge knights killed. I cannot risk them talking to anyone. The blood is on your hands. They might be good men. They might have loved ones. That strikes me as a thought that would trouble someone like you. I am prepared to do what needs to be done to protect my _daughter._ ’

‘Others will come,’ she said stubbornly.

‘And I will deal with them. I will use wits, and words, and gold, where you use that.’ He flicked a finger against Oathkeeper’s pommel. ‘My methods are just are effective and considerably less messy.’

Brienne looked at those dark, glittering eyes. ‘Why should I trust you?’

Baelish laughed unpleasantly. ‘You shouldn’t. You’d be wise not to. But I will not let harm come to Cat’s flesh and blood. Now leave, you righteous fool, before you do any more damage. I will settle matters with Lord Nestor.’

He pulled back the curtain and emerged into the torchlight. Nestor Royce himself had arrived, in his nightclothes but with a swordbelt fastened around his hips.

‘My lord Royce,’ said Baelish with a short bow. ‘Forgive the disturbance. This hedge knight was attempting to harm my daughter. The lady fought to defend her. I would recommend that you place his two associates in your cells.’

‘Is this true, woman?’ barked Royce.

Brienne didn’t have to turn to feel Baelish’s gaze on her. ‘It is, my lord. I… apologise for bringing bloodshed to your home and hearth. With your leave, I will go on my way.’

 _Then_ she turned. ‘Lord Baelish,’ she asked sweetly, ‘I forget my way in a castle of such size. Would your fair daughter care to escort me out? ‘

 

They stalked through the halls in silence, Podrick trailing along behind, until they were almost upon the main gatehouse.

‘Thank you,’ the girl said, breaking the silence.

‘San- _Alayne’,_ she corrected, seeing the flash of terror in the girl’s eyes. ‘What I said about your mother was true. I am bound by oath to protect you. Lord Baelish says you are safe with him.’ Brienne studied her face uncertainly. ‘Do you truly wish to stay here, my lady? I would take you away. I will fight a hundred robber knights if I have to. I will take you anywhere you would go. My sword is yours.’

Alayne’s expression hardly moved, but a hundred different expressions seemed to flash across her eyes, and Brienne had a fleeting impression of depths that would take years to understand. Then the moment of indecision passed, and a look of resignation settled on the girl’s face.

‘Lady Brienne…’ she began haltingly. ‘There is nowhere to go. Lady Lysa was Sansa Stark’s last relative. Everyone else is dead. Nowhere is safe for… the girl you seek. Lord Petyr protects me for selfish reasons. He wishes to use me in his own schemes. But he _does_ protect me. ‘

Brienne’s face had fallen into a frown.

‘It is a long time since anyone fought for me,’ the girl said gently. ‘Fought for _me_ , without taking something in return. You act like a true knight. Like someone from a storybook.’

Then she raised herself on her toes and leaned forward to kiss Brienne on the cheek. ‘But we all grow out of storybooks, do we not? Go far from here, my brave lady knight. Know that I am safer here than anywhere, and that Alayne Stone will never forget you.’

 

They readied their horses outside the walls in the early dawn light, a feathery snow falling around them.

_She sent me away with a kiss. That never happened to the Rainbow Knight, or to Ser Galladon._

_I am more like Jonquil. Half a knight and half a fool. A stupid great wench sutmbling out of her depth._

_Is this how it ends?_

She took deep breaths to try to dislodge the lump in her throat, and paused in the act of cleaning her mare’s hooves. ‘If you… had to leave my service, Podrick, would you have a place to go?’

Pod hesitated, then knelt down beside her. ‘We could still go north, my lady. To the Wall. Find the half-brother and see if he knows anything of Arya. The real Arya, I mean.’

‘It’s hundreds of miles, Pod. We wouldn’t make it.’ Her voice was strained. ‘The north is controlled by Roose Bolton. The last time I met Bolton men, they tried to…’ she trailed off, lost in the memory.

‘My lady?’ ventured Pod. ‘Was that when they took Ser Jaime’s hand?’

Brienne nodded, and her fingers gripped the hilt of Oathkeeper. _Where are you now, Jaime? What will you think of me if I come back with nothing?_

_What kind of oathkeeper am I?_

‘My lady… I was still in Lord Tyrion’s service when Ser Jaime returned to King’s Landing. I heard the story of what happened.’ He licked his lips nervously, eyes fixed on hers. ‘Ser Jaime said that he thought he had died with his sword hand. That he wanted to lie down and give up, wait for it all to be over. But… someone persuaded him to live, and fight on. Someone he trusted…’

Brienne had intended to laugh, but it came out a sob, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

‘You’re a good squire, Podrick.’

 _We could go on_ , she realised. There was still gold in her saddlebags. The safest way north might be by ship, to White Harbour or Eastwatch. The chances of finding any sign of Arya were vanishingly slim, but how could she give up without trying? All they had to do was find a port….

Then they heard hoofbeats from the courtyard behind them, and they rose to their feet. They exchanged a glance and she motioned Pod to stay back. She placed one hand on her sword, and circled around until she could see through the open castle gates.

Two riders, she thought, struggling to catch glimpses through the murk and the flurries of snow. The two hedge knights? Why would Baelish have let them free? Both were tall, she could see now, but only one was wearing armour. The other was dark-haired, heavily clad in furs, but unmistakably…

Brienne stepped out in front of them. ‘What are you doing here?’ she challenged. ‘You are the girl from the mountain path.‘

‘Mya,’ she said. ‘Mya Stone. Lord Baelish sent me to find you. He has a message for you.’ She reached out a gloved hand with a tight roll of parchment. Brienne reached up and took it, casting an uncertain glance at the other rider.

‘Ser Lothor is my escort,’ Mya supplied. ‘He will turn back once he knows I am safely on my way. Read the message, my lady.’

Podrick pulled a torch from the wall by the gates, and brought it over. Brienne broke the black mockingbird seal, unfurled the paper, and held it up to the flickering light.

 

_My lady,_

_Our two friends are at rest._

_You seek two missing girls. The younger is not as dead as many would believe. She was posing as a lowborn serving girl in Harrenhal when Lord Tywin’s army was garrisoned there. This I saw with my own eyes._

_Harrenhal is my fief. I have made out a warrant identifying you as my servant. None should interfere with you in your search._

_The girl who bears this message will enter your service. With the Eyrie closed for the winter, she has nothing to do in the Vale. She will be an asset on your journey._

-          _Baelish_

 

‘That’s a heavily laden horse for a messenger,’ said Podrick, regarding Mya suspiciously.

Brienne was staring up into the skies, wondering whether Baelish was laughing about this too. ‘She’s not just a messenger, Podrick. She’ll be joining us. We’re going to Harrenhal.’

‘Harrenhal? But-‘

‘Look on the bright side. You won’t have look after the horses anymore.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I thought the band could use a third member.
> 
> And what *is* she going to do with her time now that the Eyrie’s closed?


	4. The Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -POV CHANGE KLAXON-
> 
> Here's where I have to really mess the timeline around. Let's say that R&B were struck with wanderlust and headed north earlier.

Mya was bone-tired from the journey down, but she finished her work dutifully, dismissing Ossy and Carrot for the night and stabling all of her mules. She hadn’t come far from the stables when a messenger came out from the castle to find her.

‘You must come to the Lord Protector’s solar at once.’

‘Lord Nestor’s solar, you mean,’ she’d replied, but the boy shrugged and flicked his head impatiently.

She’d planned to go to Randa’s chambers for a cup of wine, a warm bed and a well-earned rest. Randa was a terrible gossip and the two girls could scarcely be more different, but they’d been fast friends for years. Mya had always preferred to save her words, but Randa was garrulous enough for both of them, and one of the few people she trusted with her secrets.

 _What would the Lord Protector want with me?_ She knew little of the man, but some of the things she’d heard made her hope that he wouldn’t be staying at the Gates of the Moon for long.

The guards at the entrance of the keep waved her past, as did those at the top of the stairwell. She found Baelish busily writing at Lord Nestor’s desk, and briefly wondered how to announce herself, but he looked up and waved her in when she came to stand in the doorway.

‘Mya Stone. I thank you for delivering Lord Robin and my daughter safely,’ he said.

She bowed her head. ‘My lord. I take care of all my charges.’

‘Indeed.’ He gave an apparently sincere smile. ‘I have another task for you. There are two strangers in the courtyard, preparing to leave us. A great woman playing at being a knight, and a foolish boy playing at being a squire. You are to travel with them.’

Mya blinked. ‘You… cannot dispose of me thus. I am part of Lord Nestor’s household, not yours.’

‘His lordship has already given his approval in this matter.’

_It must be so. He would not lie so brazenly, not under Lord Royce’s very roof._

‘Why would you do this?’ she said slowly, feeling fear spreading through her. ‘I have always served his lordship well. This is the only home I have ever known.’

Baelish looked intently at her, saying nothing, until Mya began to shift uncomfortably.

‘And yet,‘ he said after an eternity, ‘you fell into bed with the Redfort boy.’

Mya’s gut clenched. ‘That – that is none of-‘

‘A small enough offence, to be sure… you would not be the first to love someone of higher station. But even the smallest action can have far-reaching consequences.’

He turned his attention back to his papers, and continued speaking as he wrote.

‘One of my men picked a fight with a Redfort. Not your precious Mychel, to be sure,’ he added, glancing up at her intake of breath. ‘To make amends for this offence, I have invited Lord Redfort and his family here, at my guests of honour. They will arrive within days.’

She remembered Horton Redfort, the only member of Mychel’s family she’d ever met. He was an unpleasant old man with a foul temper. He’d been angry when he’d found about the affair – more furious still when his son had tried to defend her. She didn’t relish the idea of meeting the old goat again.

Then something Baelish had said filtered into her head. ‘His family?’

‘Yes. Dear Mychel is coming. With his lady wife, I might add.’

 _Ysilla_. Mya stood stock-still, trying to take all of it in, trying not to show her emotions to the man on the other side of the desk.

‘You don’t have to send me away,’ she tried. ‘I’ll stay in my stables, keep away from the hall. Mychel won’t even see me. I promise.‘

‘Would that I could accept your word. From the whispers I hear, you and the boy have great difficulty keeping away from each other. Would you try to bed the boy, or strangle him for marrying another? In either case... I need Lord Redfort’s support. I intend to win it. You present an obstacle to that. ’

‘What is this task you would set me on?’ she managed, though her tongue and lips suddenly felt like blocks of wood.

In response, Baelish wrote some more, then rolled up the parchment and sealed it with black wax.

‘Lady Brienne of Tarth. Present her with these papers. All I ask is that you travel with her to Harrenhal. Serve her well - your skills will be of use, I’m sure. She is on a quest to find a missing girl, and I would fain to know how this quest ends.’

He steepled his fingers together.

‘While you are with them… listen. Come back to me when their task is done, and tell me what you have heard. Those who serve _me_ well are always rewarded.’

 

They halted at the Bloody Gate, where they could see the road snaking far down into the lowlands. Here Ser Lothor Brune reluctantly took his leave. Mya, normally so sure in her actions, felt awkward as the greying knight stood looking up at her in the saddle.

‘He should not have sent you on this task, Mya . The lands you intend to travel through are dangerous.’

‘You know me well enough, Lothor. Have I ever been anybody’s fool? Do you think I would throw my life away? You know I will return.’ She managed a half-smile. ‘If you are still at the Gate, you will be the first to see me back.’

‘I pray that is so, girl.’ Lothor paused, as if he wanted to say something more, but backed off to the edge of the road. ‘Gods go with you.’

Mya swallowed and nodded at him, then turned her horse around and made off at a gentle pace.

_One day the fool might ask me to marry him. If the Gods are kind, that day will never come. Being rejected by a bastard girl will make him a laughing stock, and he deserves better than that._

The huge woman had reined in ahead, and was watching the parting with a faraway look in her eyes. The boy had seen it too. He pulled his horse alongside Mya’s. ‘My lady’, he said, ‘is Ser Lothor… are you and he…’

‘He is… a decent man,’ Mya said with more venom than she’d intended. ‘Good and brave and…’

‘And I’m nobody’s lady,’ she finished, spurring her horse on and leaving him behind.

 

The descent was steady and peaceful – the knights of the Vale seemed to have kept this road, at least, free of marauders. The land around them was still grey and rocky, but they saw more fields and villages with each passing day. It felt milder the lower they came; the clouds thickened overhead, and there was an autumnal mugginess in the air.

When they camped one night beside a milepost on the road, Brienne of Tarth was scratching into the loose soil with a fallen branch, drawing a route. ‘We follow this path out of the highlands, all the way to the crossroads here.’ Two scratched lines intersected. ‘Then we turn south onto the Kingsroad, cross the Trident at the ruby ford, and cut across the moors once we pass Castle Darry.’

‘How long will it take?’ asked Podrick, watching intently.

She shook her head. ‘Save the last stretch around Harrenhal, I have not travelled this way before. From the maps I have seen… perhaps two weeks?’

Mya had little to add. Within five miles of the Eyrie, no living soul knew the paths better than her. Down here, she knew nothing. She didn’t savour the feeling of being so helpless.

Only one other time in her life, when she was a girl of nine, had Mya even come close to leaving the Vale. Robert Arryn had written to Lord Nestor, proposing that she travel to King’s Landing to be closer to her father. Back then, Mya had thought it silly. She barely remembered her father, and couldn’t understand why, if one of them had to move, _he_ couldn’t come to _her_. Then one day, the subject was dropped, and she never heard of it again.

Now she understood better. There were enough loose lips in the Vale, enough winking comments about her hair and eyes, to make her suspicious. The Arryns had given her a home, and later a responsible position in Lord Royce’s household. It was more favour than a lowborn girl could reasonably expect. There was a notion that she had never dared voice, that had grown into a near-certainty all the same – _my father’s name._

 _People must think me foolish if they believe I have no inkling._ On cold nights, when the wind was howling around the peaks, she sometimes dared to look at the idea face-on, and it made her snort with laughter. _Through him, I have more nobility than Ysilla Royce…_

But a Stone was a Stone. There was no other life possible for her but this one, this life of callused hands, slippery ascents, and stables full of shit. Not to mention lecherous knights, interfering lords, and... _these two._

Mya thought of herself as a tall woman, but Brienne of Tarth stood at least a hand above her; Mya’s build was lean and wiry, but Brienne was broad in the shoulders like no woman she’d ever seen. The woman had unfortunate features, too; a broad face with crowded teeth and short lank hair. There was no femininity about her. Mya, for all that she preferred leathers to silks, could never be mistaken for a man.

If you looked past her size, though, Brienne was… almost childlike. She had heavily freckled skin and clear innocent eyes. _She can’t be much older than I am_. Mya had the sense that she should feel some kinship with this young woman in her breeches and armour, but couldn’t find it in her. Brienne was wary and distant, always watching with suspicion in those big blue eyes, talking little, revealing less. Mya couldn’t imagine what had taken this woman away from her highborn father’s hall to wield a sword and search for lost girls.    

It seemed easier to ingratiate herself with Podrick, although the stammering squire was hardly more talkative than his mistress. She guessed his age at ten-and-five; possibly less, but she inclined to believe he was small for his age rather than truly young. When Brienne was out of earshot, she tried to strike up a conversation.

‘How did you come to be Lady Brienne’s squire, Podrick?’

‘I was in the service of Tyrion Lannister,’ he replied, glancing up at her nervously. ‘When he was accused of… of… his crimes, they all said I should leave the city.’

‘But why _her_? Do you not have family to go to?’

Podrick flinched. ‘N-no. Not any more. I don’t have parents. I mean – I did, everyone does, but I don’t now. My cousin took me with him, but he died in the war.’

‘You know what the name Stone means?’ The boy nodded. ‘I didn’t grow up with parents either. And my father’s dead, I know that much.’ She gave him an encouraging smile.

‘Lord Tyrion was a good man,’ said Podrick. ‘He treated me better than anyone.’

‘Does Lady Brienne treat you well?’ Mya asked gently.

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that! I like it with her. I mean, it’s harder, but I like it. She’s teaching me to fight, and –‘

Brienne stomped back into the clearing with more wood, and the conversation dropped away. She looked at them both like she was going to say something, then sat down with a grunt.

‘There’s nothing around here,’ she said curtly. ‘It’ll be a dry supper tonight.’

 

It was another two days before Brienne confronted her. They’d stopped by the roadside to let Podrick disappear into the middle distance to squat. Mya was stretching her legs, holding her horse’s bridle in one hand, when she turned around and almost walked into Brienne’s bulk. She was close enough to block out the sun, those distrustful eyes were staring at her _hard_. Mya took an involuntary step back.

‘Why are you here?’ the woman demanded finally. Her great nostrils flared. ‘I am In Lord Baelish’s debt… in a fashion. I will not gainsay his wishes. But speak plainly to me, Mya. Why has he sent you with us?’

Mya didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to scream that she wanted to be there about as much as the Lady Brienne wanted her there. Part of her bristled at having to justify herself to some highborn ( _true_ highborn) wench. She could make up some mollifying lie, of course, it probably wouldn’t take much to outwit this one, but…

‘Something I did displeased Lord Baelish,’ she said. ‘He dismissed me.’

‘And will you serve me just as poorly?’

‘Do… do you have any cause for complaint so far?’ her voice sounded less defiant than she’d intended.

Brienne turned away, her expression more unpleasant than usual.

 

The woman was training Podrick hard, Mya could see. Every morning, they stripped to their shirts and sparred with branches until they were soaked with sweat, Brienne keeping a low monotone of advice throughout. Mya could see the strength in Brienne’s arms, and a surprising grace when she moved, although she didn’t seem particularly fast. Podrick generally got the worst of the sessions, all the same, and when he trudged back to the camp, he was always carrying new bruises and blisters.

 _Baelish was wrong about one thing,_ Mya told herself. Podrick was shy, and clumsy too, but the boy was no fool. He stayed quiet, and listened, and learned. He didn’t tell bawdy jokes like Randa, or talk about himself like Mychel. Mya found him strangely restful company. They divided up the tasks every day, and Pod did his share without complaint. Mya started taking opportunities to teach the boy things she knew; safer ways to tie hobbles, how to pinfire an injury. Seeing that the boy was a hesitant rider, she showed him how to fit a sidepull bridle instead of a bit, thinking that it would make his horse more sensitive to his commands.

 _And I never have to show him any of it twice._ _Ossy’s a year older and has half the brains of this one._

Soon they were well into the lowlands, the land increasingly thick with trees, and crossed by streams that must have been tributaries of the Trident. The Vale of Arryn had dwindled to a grey haze behind them. Mya tried not to look back.

They came upon the first corpse a mile from the crossroads.

Then there were more of them, men of all shapes and sizes, wearing a motley of different uniforms, sharing nothing but their grim fate. They were hanging in various states of decay, some sickening to look on, but both Brienne and Podrick seemed to take the sight stoically. Of course, thought Mya, the boy’s been to war. But what about _her?_

‘Outlaws, broken men,’ said Brienne uncertainly, scanning the rotting faces. ‘Deserters. See, Pod, how many of them tore off their blazons?’

‘Is this the local lord’s work, then?’ asked the boy.

Mya doubted it, because they weren’t _all_ deserters. Some of them wore Lannister devices, and those of allied houses. She couldn’t remember the latest news of the war – were there any rebels left in the Riverlands? It had all been far away from her life in the Eyrie.

Brienne, riding stiffly in the front, told them to be wary, but the only living things they saw as they passed the trees with their grisly decorations were crows. They scattered when the riders approached, and settled back as soon as they passed.

By early evening, they could see a puff of smoke rising from the road ahead of them, and the trees opened out into a clearing. In its centre stood a great three-storey inn; lights burned in its upper windows, the smoke they’d seen was rising from its chimney. They could hear the hammering of metal in a forge.

Podrick, seemingly inadvertently, gave a long, heartfelt sigh. Mya let herself smile. _This one misses the courtly life more than he’d admit_.

Mya could see from Brienne’s creased brow that the woman shared her bafflement at the contrast between the grim woods and this homely place. Even as they looked, they heard a scream, but one followed by peals of high-pitched laughter. It can only have been the sound of children playing.

‘We shouldn’t,’ said Brienne. ‘I’ve seen inns like this before. We’d be better off going around.’ But Mya sensed that even this dour woman felt the temptation of a soft bed for the night.

‘If the hangmen are out there, they’re out there,’ Mya said. ‘Better to meet them fresh from a hot meal and warm bed than sleeping in a ditch.’ Pod nodded, eyes bright with hope.

‘We’ll go in and look,’ said Brienne doubtfully. ‘If the people are… dangerous… we ‘ll ride on.’

The inn and its outbuildings were surrounded by a low white stone wall, and they found the yard inside heavy with mud. Now Mya could see the red glow of the forge, and a large thatch-roofed stable besides. Children _were_ playing in the yard, boys and girls of every age up to seven or eight, but they stopped and stared when the travellers approached. Even the hammering stopped.

The eldest of them, a girl of ten or so, looked them up and down, her gaze setting on Brienne. ‘Who are you?’

‘Honest travellers seeking shelter. My name is Brienne, the boy is my squire, Podrick Payne, and the… and… this is Mya Stone.’

‘I’m Willow,’ allowed the girl. ‘Will you be wanting beds?’

‘Are you the innkeep?’ asked Mya. ‘Where are your parents?’

‘I don’t have any. My sister’s the innkeep, but she’s away. All we have to eat is horse. Do you have silver?’

‘That’s a steep price,’ observed Mya.

‘You could pay a steeper one,’ said a voice behind them. All three of them turned to see a see a strong-looking youth in a leather apron. Behind him, in the windows of the main inn building, crossbows were trained on them.

Mya heard Brienne choke. ‘My lord…?’

‘I’m not a lord,’ said the boy, looking puzzled. ‘I’m the smith. Gendry.’

Mya studied the boy. He was handsome enough, to be sure. But she couldn’t see what had Brienne gaping so dumbly.

‘Rooms,’ she said, to break the silence. ‘There’s no need for your bows. Or your nooses, if they’re yours. We’ll pay silver, and we’ll take whatever food you’ve got.’

Willow and Gendry exchanged a glance, and then the girl began to shout orders at the assembled children like a castle steward instructing servants.

 

Brienne bought two rooms, and insisted that Podrick share hers, which forced Mya to hold back a smirk. _Imagine the two of them abed. She’d break him like a twig._ Mya’s room was comfortable enough, the long-anticipated feather bed everything she’d hoped for.

They met back down in the common room for their unappetising meal, grateful all the same for the roaring hearth there. The children had gathered inside, filling the rest of the room, eating their own meagre scraps of food and carrying on a dozen conversations at once.

‘My lady,’ ventured Mya, when the din subsided a little, ‘why did you swoon over the smith boy?’

Brienne gave her a typically distrustful glance, then huffed. ‘I once fought for Renly Baratheon,’ she said. ‘I was… surprised… because the boy looks so much like him. Renly. He could be my lord’s younger brother.’

‘Or his bastard,’ laughed Mya. ‘Although I’ve heard Renly was unlikely to make one of those.’

Brienne flushed dark red, whether out of embarrassment or anger, Mya couldn’t tell.

‘I meant no offence,’ she added uncertainly, and tried to move the conversation away. ‘Robert’s the only Baratheon famed for fathering bastards, anyway.’

Then she choked on her mouthful until Brienne had to slap her on the back, with a hand meatier than their supper.

 

Mya wasn’t sure who had convinced who, but both of them agreed to go out and speak to the boy, who’d stayed outside, working in his forge. He looked at them defensively, hammer still in hand.

‘Yes, I’m from King’s Landing. Me and many others.’

‘Is your mother still alive?’ asked Brienne. ‘And your father?’

‘You ask too many questions. Everyone asks too many questions about me. I never knew my father.’ Gendry tried to go back to his work.

‘Has no-one ever remarked on your face?’ Brienne went on.

‘Why should they? It’s not as ugly as yours.’

Brienne clenched her teeth, and Mya picked up the thread. ‘You must have seen King Robert.’

‘Sometimes, at tourneys, from afar. Once, I was playing near the Mud Gate, and he almost ran me down. A big fat sot, but better than those sons of his.’

‘Gendry, listen,’ said Mya, seeing that the boy was at the end of his patience. ‘My name is Stone. That’s the name we give to bastards in the Vale. My mother was lowborn, and my father… ‘ she took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. ‘…was King Robert.’

She’d never said it out loud before. When she looked, Gendry and Brienne were looking at her incredulously.

‘I see it,’ said Brienne quietly.

‘Who came asking questions about you before?’ asked Mya, remembering what the boy had said.

‘Ned Stark did. Back in the city,’ said Gendry, dragging the words out slowly.

Mya exchanged glances with Brienne, then looked at Gendry carefully – the eyes, the hair, the cast of features…

‘I think I’m your sister,’ she said, and laughed.

 

Gendry came inside, eventually, and Mya sat with him near the fire. Brienne seemed to have little to say; soon she made her excuses and retired. Podrick followed at her heels as always. Mya talked of the Vale, and her childhood; Gendry seemed reluctant at first, but eventually told her about Tobho Mott’s shop and his membership of some kind of brotherhood. She tried not to think of the fact that she’d been admiring his looks, before. _I’m no Targaryen… no Lannister either._

But it had been a long day. Mya felt her eyes becoming heavy. ‘I’m sorry, Gendry, I should go upstairs.’

He smiled and finished his drink. ‘I didn’t mean to bore you. Are you leaving in the morning?’

‘Yes. We have to reach Harrenhal.’ The name made Gendry flinch.

‘That’s an ill-omened place. But it might be for the best,’ he said. ‘We’re expecting some other guests tomorrow. I’m not sure you’d want to meet them.’

Mya was too tired to question that. The feather bed proved as good as it looked.

 

They’d only travelled a few hours down the kingsroad the next day when Brienne signalled a halt. She led Podrick down a steep bank to the edge of a stream for his daily practice. Mya took the horses to drink, then climbed up to the road to keep lookout.

The sky was darkening again; it felt like would rain at any moment, and heavily. She looked down the way they were headed, seeing a smudge of dark green hills off to the south-east. _We must be near the river now._ Her mind started to wander, and she thought of Gendry and Baelish and Mychel. Behind her, the noise of clashing wood, Brienne’s grunts of effort, and –

Mya froze, and crouched. There were shapes in the distance. Someone was coming up the road toward them. She slid down the bank, and ran over to the others, who’d paused in their sparring.

‘Riders coming,’ hissed Mya. ‘A group.’

Brienne stopped and listened, and then they all heard the hoofbeats. ‘Hide the horses over there,’ she told Pod. A little further down the length of the stream was a patch of trees – Pod shrank back into them, pulling the horses with him. Brienne discarded her stick, picked up her jewelled sword out of the long grass, and fastened it around her waist.

Not wanting to dash across the open, they had to settle for a dark green, needle-leafed bush halfway up the bank, barely big enough to conceal them both. Mya tried not to think of the hanged men at the crossroads as the riders approached.

Seven, she counted, all heavily cloaked. As they flashed by, she caught a glimpse of some of their faces. None of them looked like small men, but one of them was _vast_ , and the skin under his hood was white and hairless. The apparent leader had lost most of his nose. She could hear the jingle of mail and see the weapons hanging from their saddles. Soldiers – but whose? She could see no uniforms beneath the cloaks.

‘Warrior give me strength,’ breathed Brienne.

There was a glint in her eyes that Mya had never seen before.

‘I know those men. That one is Rorge,’ whispered Brienne. ‘The larger one is Biter. Those are the Bloody Mummers.’

 _‘Mummers?_ ’ They didn’t look like any players Mya had ever seen.

If the riders had been paying more attention to their surroundings, they might have spotted the figures lurking on the bank below. But they seemed to be pushing their mounts hard, sometimes casting anxious glances over their shoulders.

Brienne seemed to realise who she was talking to. ‘A sellsword company,’ she added. ‘The worst of men. Looters, rapists, and murderers. Turncoats too.’

 _Seven gods, she’s talking about them as if... what happened to her?_ ‘Lucky for us that they’re riding the other way, then,’ she said out loud.

‘I owe them a debt,’ growled Brienne, hand falling to the hilt of her sword. She made to stand up, but Mya grabbed her shoulders.

‘ _Seven,_ ’ she hissed. ‘Trained soldiers. Don’t be a fool.’

But the Mummers had already passed on their way; Mya and Brienne emerged from their hiding place, Podrick leading the horses out from his, further away. Brienne stared back down the road indecisively.

‘They’re making for the inn. The children.’

‘It’s not our affair,’ protested Mya. ‘We have matters of our own to attend to.’ But all the same, she had a treacherous thought of Gendry, the half-brother she’d just found. Surely he’d have the sense not to trifle with desperate sellswords? Could these men be the _guests_ he was awaiting?

The huge woman stopped and looked first behind her, then at the road ahead, lips pursed together, jaw working like she was chewing a mouthful. _And one whose taste she doesn’t much like._

‘They had crossbows. At the inn,’ said Podrick, who’d reached them.

‘In the arms of babes,’ replied Brienne. ‘Those men will show no mercy.’

‘I have to go back,’ she said eventually. ‘Stay here. Do you hear me, Podrick? _Stay_. If I don’t return, then…’ she trailed off, shaking her head. Without another word, she took her mare’s reins, swung up into the saddle, and set off back the way they had come.

Pod watched her go, then turned to Mya, looking scared. ‘We should go after her,’ he said. Mya snatched the reins out of his hands.

‘You heard what she said. Squires are supposed to obey.’

The boy looked like he was going to cry. Mya turned to look at the road. _She’s going to get herself killed. And this boy’s learned everything he knows from her. He’ll follow her right into the arms of the Stranger._

‘Your saddle’s loose,’ she said, as the rain started falling around them.

‘No it isn’t,’ protested the boy. ‘I did it carefully.’ But Mya was already reaching over, making an adjustment to his horse’s saddle girth.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Let’s go after her, then.’

She mounted up and rode after Brienne, and when Podrick made to follow, the saddle came sliding off, dumping him in an undignified heap on the road.

 

Mya spurred her palfrey on hard, and only slowed down when she knew she was drawing close. She hitched her horse to a tree, and crept closer to the inn yard on foot, trying to stay hidden among the trunks. She peered through the strengthening rain. Sure enough, Brienne stood there, with the seven mounted men before her.

Willow was there too, with a crossbow, but she looked small and scared with Rorge looming over her. He was making some obscene threat, and Mya crept closer, to the edge of the outer wall, so she could make out his words. ‘…I’ll cut her fucking legs off, then set her on her stumps so she can watch me fuck crossbow girl.’

Brienne had drawn her sword. She said something Mya couldn’t hear, and Rorge roared in fury, charging at her with a great axe. The other men, still mounted, were content to watch. _Like it was a mummer’s play._

Mya knew a thing or two about swordplay. Mychel loved to talk about nothing more, and liked to enthuse about long-dead knights and demonstrate thrusts and parries when they were walking out together. She’d picked up enough to recognise that Brienne was _good_. When she was training Podrick, she was slow, deliberate, and patient. Now, fighting in earnest, she seemed to be moving and thinking faster than Mya had ever seen her.

Brienne circled and danced, letting the man expend his energy, letting his anger well up uselessly. She struck him twice, deep wounds that drew blood. In return, he could only manage a glancing blow to her shoulder. She turned him so that the rain was beating into his eyes. Finally he slipped and lost his balance, and Brienne moved in close and punched her sword clean through him. Mya’s heart swelled and she bit down the urge to cry out in delight.

Then she heard a strange keening sound, and looked to see the huge man – Biter? – jumping down and lumbering toward her. Brienne was looking the other way, letting the dead man slide off her sword, and wouldn’t see him coming –

‘YOUR LEFT!’ screamed Mya, loud enough to carry over the drumming of the rain. The watchers all turned to look at her.

Brienne looked up too, just in time to see a huge white form crashing down on her. She tried to twist to one side, but Biter’s charge still clipped her and sent her spinning. A moment later he threw her to the ground, dropping his weight on top of her. Something _cracked_ , audibly, and he began beating her head against the earth in a mindless frenzy. Mya saw Brienne’s sword drop from her fingers. Then the man ducked his head in and clenched his jaws, coming up spitting blood and flesh.

Mya ran then, pelting across the courtyard before the mounted men could react, and snatched up the fallen sword. It was lighter than she expected, lending itself easily to her grip… and it bit deep when she stood astride the pale man and thrust it into his back.

Biter squealed and reared up, rewarding Mya with a backhand punch that span her around and dumped her into the mud. Trying to clear her eyes, she caught a glimpse of other men dismounting, and fumbled around for the sword. _He barely flinched_ , she thought. _Can anything kill this monster_?

But the man had taken his attention off Brienne for a moment. She’d taken advantage, freeing an arm from under his weight, and the arm came up holding a dagger. He hissed once through his pointed teeth, then the blade buried itself up to the hilt in his white neck. Blood spurted like a waterfall. Biter twitched in his death throes. A long, awful tongue dropped limply from his mouth.

With a scream of effort, Brienne pushed the dying man’s colossal bulk aside, and slid out from underneath him. She was covered in blood, his and hers. She regained her feet, but was swaying like a sailor, eyes all unfocussed. Mya had clambered up too, caked in mud. The other men were advancing with weapons drawn. They weren’t wasting time with threats and taunts. Not now.

_No chance, and no hope._

One of the men, a tall dark man with his arm in a sling, grunted, and fell face down into the yard. His friends turned to see the arrow protruding from the back of his head.

A moment later horsemen were charging into the yard, yelling as they came, and the Mummers panicked and scattered. Men ran hither and thither, and the clash of steel on steel began to echo around the clearing. Mya saw one man cut down by a rider in a yellow cloak, and another killed by an arrow.

She turned her attention to Brienne, who’d fallen back to her knees, and lent the woman her shoulder. Somehow Mya found the strength to lever her to her feet. Gendry appeared in the door of his forge, looking at Biter’s huge corpse in horror.

‘What the fuck were _you_ doing?’ spat Mya. ‘Watching?’ The boy just shook his head and backed away fearfully. His eyes moved to Brienne, then back to Mya. ‘My friends are here. You need to give me that sword.’

‘No,’ Brienne said muzzily. ‘Oathkeeper. You can’t-‘

‘They’ll kill you,’ the apprentice boy blurted. ‘If they think you fight for the Lannisters. You’ll be hanging from one of these trees, just like the others. I’ll hide it for you.’

‘Do as he says,’ said Mya grudgingly.

‘It’s precious,’ mumbled Brienne.

_‘Trust me.’_

Brienne looked into his eyes, and handed Oathkeeper to the boy without another word.

‘That scabbard, too.’

She fumbled with shaking fingers until Mya grunted impatiently and reached down to unbuckle it herself. Gendry took the sword and belt and ran back into his forge.

He came out with another sword, a much more mundane-looking weapon. Mya had the presence of mind to dip into Biter’s pooling blood, and press it into Brienne’s fingers, just as the first of the Brotherhood came around into the yard.

 

First, the yellow-cloaked rider, who walked with the authority of a leader. At his left shoulder was a grey-haired bowman, and at his right a younger man in sheepskins.

Gendry gave the men an anxious nod.

‘Sorry we’re late, boy,’ said the cloaked man. ‘Bastards doubled back over a stream, gave us the slip. For a while.’ He looked at Brienne. ‘You look in a bad way. You kill these two?’

‘Yes,’ Brienne managed.

‘Hah. Can’t say I care much for a couple of women doing our killing for us.’

‘Those children would be dead if not for her,’ said Mya forcefully.

‘And I thank her for it,’ said the cloaked man, ‘but she’s also given these wretches a kinder death than they deserved. We’ll hang them all the same, o’ course. Now… we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I’m Lem. These boys are Dennett and Harwin. Some call us the Brotherhood.’

‘You’re outlaws,’ said Mya.

The man who named himself Lem gave a mocking bow. ‘There’s those who call us that. Now if a certain red-frocked friend of mine was here, he could bore your tits off with a discussion of rights and wrongs, and how good men live when the law itself is wicked. Me, I’m a practical man. Who do you fight for?’

‘The Lord Protector of the Vale,’ replied Mya quickly.

‘Is that so? When did Baelish start hiring women to do his fighting?’

‘We’re not fighting, we’re searching,’ gasped Brienne. ‘For a missing girl.’

Lem gave an unsettling smile. ‘No shortage of those around.’

‘It’s the truth,’ said Mya. ‘We have a warrant. I can show it to you.’

‘Who’s the girl, then?’ wondered the man in sheepskins, revealing a northern accent. ‘A whore from one of Littlefinger’s brothels?’ The remark met with general amusement.

Lem laughed too, though it never reached his eyes. He turned when two more of the Brotherhood came into the yard. They were carrying a third figure between them, and it took a Mya a moment to realise that it was Podrick, blood streaming down from his nose.

‘Picked this up down the road,’ called one of the men. ‘Had to persuade the lad to come with us. Slow learner, you might say.’

‘My squire,’ groaned Brienne, taking a step towards him and almost falling over again. Mya gripped her arm. Lem had seemed to reach a decision.

‘Well, far be it from the Brotherhood to interfere with a noble quest like yours,’ he announced. ‘We’ll let you go on your way, and find your runaway whore.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mya.

‘But first we’ll take all your silver and valuables. We have a sworn mission too, and ours costs money. Why don’t we all go inside, out of the rain?’

 

The children had all vanished. Pod sat miserably by himself next to the empty hearth, wet through, snuffling and dabbing at his nose. Mya helped Brienne lower herself painfully down onto a bench, two of the outlaws watching them disinterestedly from either side of the open doorway.

Brienne was clutching a rag to her face, but it was already stained deep red and dripping. The creature she’d called Biter had bitten off half her cheek. Her breathing was laboured, pain written clearly on her face every time she tried.

‘Do you have a maester?’ asked Mya, when Lem stomped in, shaking off the rain. Willow was following him nervously.

‘The fuck do you think?’ he sneered.

‘Jeyne could see to you,’ said Willow. ‘My sister. She’s on her way now.’

Mya didn’t know what to think of that. There wasn’t much to do except sit and watch the outlaws in the yard methodically strip Brienne’s mare down to its tack, laughing when heard the jingle of coins from one of her bags. Then they turned their attention to Podrick’s hobby.

‘Get the fire lit, girl,’ said Lem. ‘And find some ale. Some for our guests, too. Nobody likes to be robbed when they’re sober, and it’s unlucky to part ways without a toast.’

One of the boys appeared to light the fire, and the girl, Willow brought over a tray of mugs. Lem immediately drained his. ‘We’ll leave you your sword and your mount. That should be all a warrior needs. Our Lord’s already blessed us with seven good horses today.’ He paused and looked Brienne up and down. ‘That’s fine armour you’ve got on.’

Brienne had been watching the men work with dull resignation, but the mention of the armour seemed to strike a spark of defiance. ‘It is fine, ser, and it belongs to me.’

‘Does it now? Fitted to you, looks like. Well, we’ve got a few big lads among our number. I’m sure one of them would thank me for it.’

‘You will not take it unless you kill me,’ declared Brienne, struggling to her feet, trying not to show her trembling and weakness. ‘If you mean to do that, delay no longer. But do not tell yourself that it was anything other than a bloody murder. And of someone who broke bread as your guest.’

Mya held her breath. _Bold, this one._

‘I’m tempted to take her back to meet our Lady,’ chuckled Dennett, from the doorway. ‘Hard to tell which of them is chillier.’

Lem simply glared at him. ‘We’ll leave once we’re done. You’ll stay until dawn tomorrow, just so’s we’re good and far away when you go squealing to the nearest lord. We’ll leave a couple of our boys watching the road to make sure you sit here nice and cosy. Now drink up.’

Mya had reluctantly raised one of the mugs to her lips, when a sudden recollection made her heart jump.

_They’ll kill you. If they think you fight for the Lannisters._

Mya mumbled an excuse and left the table, stepping out into the rain. She crossed the yard over to the outlaws, who were piling the saddlebags on the ground. ‘Pass me that pouch,’ she said to the nearest man, trying to instil authority into her voice. ‘Your leader wanted to see our warrant from the Lord Protector.’

The northerner just looked at her scornfully.

‘She’s Gendry’s type,’ laughed the other. ‘Boy’s clothes and shaggy hair. Remember the other one? She was bossy as a septa too.’

But he handed over the leather pouch, and Mya carried it back into the inn, trying not to show her relief. With her back to the men in the yard, and not yet in sight of the men in the doorway, she deftly slipped the _other_ warrant out, and stuffed it into her sleeve.

‘Our credentials,’ she announced as she came to the table, but Lem only glanced at the paper with its broken black mockingbird seal, and waved dismissively. Brienne was looking at her in confusion. _Great dumb wench_ , thought Mya. _Do I have to drop you a wink?_

An hour later, the Brotherhood had gone on their way, and seven new corpses dangled from the trees around the inn.

 

They sat dispiritedly around the fire until Willow’s sister arrived as promised, a tall, lean dark-haired girl perhaps a year or two older than Podrick. She looked at Brienne with what seemed to be a trained eye.

‘Broken ribs, I think,’ said Jeyne, biting her lip and squinting . ‘I could bandage your chest good and tight, which would ease the pain, but you wouldn’t be able to breathe deep. Your chest would get weak. It’d kill you, in weather like this.’

‘I’m not afraid of pain,’ said Brienne vaguely.

‘I’ll mix you something for it. You can take some with you when you leave. Lead your horse instead of riding for a few days. You’ll feel it mend as time goes on. Now…‘ her fingers poked into Brienne’s soaked, blood-matted hair, ‘Willow says you’re lucky that man didn’t crack your skull.’

‘Much too thick,’ said Mya.

‘What about the bite?’ asked Brienne. The inn didn’t have a glass, but her fingers had hardly stopped tracing the outlines of the wound.

‘It’s too big to sew. Keep it covered and keep washing it out. Bite wounds go rotten easily.’

‘I could make a poultice,’ offered Mya. ‘Bread and linseed, to draw the corruption out. I’ve made them before. For mules. You’re stubborn enough that the poultice won’t know the difference.’

Something like a smile bent one corner of Brienne’s mouth, just for a moment, until the movement made her face cloud with pain.

 

The rain persisted. By morning the yard of the inn was a mudbath, and the road stretching away south didn’t look much better. Some of the children had stopped to watch the visitors leave, and Gendry had come to see them off at the gate.

‘My lady,’ he said, passing over a bundle wrapped in cloth. ‘I hope you don’t mind… I sharpened it for you. I’ve never seen such a sword before. Every smith dreams of working with Valyrian steel.’

‘It’s alright, Gendry,’ said Brienne. ‘Thank you for helping us.’

He shuffled his feet. ‘My friends are… good men. But everyone’s suspicious in these times. I’m sorry about what happened.’

Mya tutted. ‘Small thanks for a woman who saved your life. Well, you might be ungrateful and a craven, but you’re still my brother.’

‘You don’t know that for sure,’ said the boy. ‘I mean, everything you both said to me… it doesn’t prove anything.’

‘I say it’s true. Who’s going to dispute it?’ challenged Mya.

‘Many people lose siblings,’ said Brienne solemnly. ‘it’s a rare thing to be given a new one.’

He just shrugged in response.

‘I’d say that I’ll come and visit you, but I doubt I’ll feel like coming back here again.’ Mya looked at him, smiling. ‘Good luck, Gendry.’

‘Keep the other sword. The one I gave you,’ suggested Gendry. ‘You’re the ones who are heading into danger. I’ll pray that you have a better time in Harrenhal than I did.’

 

At first they made slow progress. Brienne walked sweating and stone-faced, working hard not to show any sign of her pain. All the same, they had to stop every few hours for the woman to rest, and take a swig from the flask Jeyne had given her.  By late afternoon, picking their way between streams and withy beds, expecting to come to the Trident at any moment. they met a septon on the road. He was a stooped, broad-shouldered man with grey hairs around his tonsure, leading a heavily laden donkey and accompanied by a great shaggy dog. The animal bounded over to them, barking, and Podrick reached out a hand to pet it.

‘Seven blessings,’ offered the man. ‘I am Meribald. He is Dog.’

Brienne nodded. ‘Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Mya Stone.' She moistened her lips and took a deep breath, flinching. 'Where are you headed?’

‘Upriver – but I must confess I have turned off my route. I hoped to spend the night at the old Dragon Inn.’

‘Is that the inn at the crossroads?’ asked Brienne. ‘We found it occupied by outlaws.’

‘It’s true,’ said Mya. ‘You may want to turn back to the river.’

Meribald smiled disarmingly. ’I thank you for your concern, my lady, but even desperate men generally see no harm in me. All I offer is forgiveness for the sinful, and food for the hungry.’ He waved a gnarled hand at the packages and sacks that weighed down his donkey.

Podrick was eagerly playing with Dog, smiling for the first time in days.

‘The outlaws have emptied our packs,’ Brienne was telling the old septon. ‘Would you sell us some of your food?’

Mya cast her a quizzical look. Had she hidden some coins away, back at the inn?

‘Stop and break bread with me,’ suggested Meribald. ‘Tell me of your misfortunes, and I’ll tell you a few tales of my own. The Seven are always with me, and Dog too, but I never turn down company.’


	5. Harrenhal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back. 
> 
> Work and life in general are getting really busy, but I'll try to keep updating regularly...

Brienne was back on her horse. The pain in her chest was still sharp, but cut a little less deep with each passing day, just as Jeyne had promised. Earlier, it had been so bad that it blocked out all of her thoughts, and the world shrank to her chest and the few yards of road in front. When they stopped to rest – too often in those first days - she noted the concerned glances Pod and Mya exchanged with one another.

 _I will go on_ , she’d promised herself. _I am stronger than they know_.

Two laborious days’ journey south of the river lay Darry. Brienne remembered hearing that the castle had been occupied by northern soldiers, who burned it before they retreated. The walls were blackened, but it was hardly the ruin she expected. Wooden scaffolding covered part of one wall; she could see artisans and labourers at work. Above the keep flew a curious variation of the Lannister sigil; not the gold lion on its own, nor the lion and stag of King Tommen, but a quartered field of lions and ploughmen.

There was a great makeshift camp outside the walls, where dozens of ragged-looking souls were huddled around fires. Peasants or no, they all carried arms. Brienne thought of the crowd she’d met on the road near Duskendale. _Sparrows. Only this time there is no septon to restrain them._ Every now and then, the sparrows and the sentries on the walls would exchange abuse and catcalls. The travellers drew curious glances, but nobody challenged them, from the camp or from the walls. Guiding her mare between the clusters of people, Brienne drew up to the walls and hailed the castle.

‘Don’t expect an answer,’ grunted a voice behind her. She turned to see a large bald sparrow, with the build of someone who knew how to wield a weapon.

‘Seven blessings,’said Brienne politely. ‘Whose device is that, ser? Which lord holds Darry?’

‘Lord Lancel. Used to, anyways.’

 _Jaime’s cousin_. Brienne had never met the man.

‘His lordship was a good man,’ said the sparrow resentfully. ‘He went off to take holy vows and join the Warrior’s Sons. Now Lady Amerei refuses to feed and shelter us. She had her men drive us out of the courtyard.’

That was ignoble, thought Brienne. Expelling useless mouths during a siege was one thing, but now the war had moved on. Lords and ladies alike had a duty to their smallfolk, even – _especially -_ with winter coming.

‘If you love the Seven, you’ll leave her to her debauches,’ the man continued, turning away. ‘Between her sins and her family’s, she’ll get what she deserves.’

Brienne called out a thanks, unheeded, and turned to Podrick. ‘Who is _Amerei_?’

The boy shifted in his saddle. ‘My lady… I think he means Amerei _Frey_. What that man was saying about her… there’s a story about when she was young, that she was found in the stables with three…’ he looked at Brienne, then Mya, and blushed.

‘Tell me it sometime,’ teased Mya.

Brienne couldn’t share the levity. She felt another old wound flare up – a half-forgotten welt of loss and betrayal. _She broke bread with them. She came to their hall to make amends, and they gave her death. And they enjoyed a reward of lords, and lands, and castles._ She felt a surge of anger, so bitter that it brought tears to her eyes.

They were tired and hungry, and the rain was still falling hard in spells… but Brienne would drown in it before she accepted the hospitality of a Frey.

‘Come on,’ she said grimly. ‘There are still a few hours of light.’

 

Brienne knew they had to leave the kingsroad and veer south-west, but was unsure of the turning place. She had passed through these lands before, on her first journey with Jaime. They’d picked their way across the moors toward Maidenpool, taking great detours to avoid castles, watchtowers and any sign of habitation. The war still was raging unresolved, and she’d carried the most wanted man in the seven kingdoms through the heart of it, staying off the roads, hardly daring to stop at night…

Until Maidenpool. There, she’d seen the devastation of the town and decided that they could risk the Duskendale road for a while, rather than working their way along the coast. Crackclaw point, a great finger of barren land pointing out into the sea, had an ill reputation. _A poor judgement_. Whatever ghosts lurked there could not have been worse than the real foes they met on their journey. It was because of her that the outlaws had killed Cleos Frey, and because of her that the Mummers had found them fighting in the stream _. All because of me._

That had been months ago, and Brienne found she couldn’t recognise any of the country they passed through. When they saw a track leading off the road to their right, Brienne announced with more conviction than she felt that this must be the way to Harrenhal. The hills on every side were a monotony of deepest green, the sky uniformly dark and threatening – and they saw no smallfolk. This would have been good pasture land, once, but the herdsmen must have moved their flocks to safer places.

The rain came down more days than not, making them huddle shivering in their cloaks. They were wary of travellers, and always camped well off the path, but she began to wish that they could meet some honest souls who could give them news, and direction. Now Brienne remembered the _other_ journey, trussed up with Jaime on horseback, enduring the taunts of their captors, hardly daring to whisper to each other at night… but she’d hardly taken note of the landscape in that unhappy time. To go back to Harrenhal so soon…

She spotted the riders at the same time as the others. They’d crested the hill in front, coming from the south-west, heading directly toward Brienne and her companions. They stood exposed on a bare hillside; there was no question of hiding. There was still time to run, perhaps – the riders were not forcing any great pace – but Brienne knew that she was not capable of enduring a hard pursuit, not in her current condition.

‘They carry the king’s sigil,’ reported Pod. ‘See? The pennant, on top of their banner.’

Brienne drew a deep, painful breath. ‘We’ll announce ourselves honestly,’ she said. ‘If these are king’s men, they’ll let us pass on our way.’

There were some two dozen armoured men in yellow and black, surrounding a large figure in a plain brown shift. A figure in red and white rode at the head of the group. Seconds stretched into minutes as they drew closer, slowly and inexorably. Brienne could make out more detail as they closed the distance. No two uniforms matched, but they all shared a theme of yellow and black. Before long she was close enough to make out the three dogs of House Clegane in their banner, and the leader had long hair, wet and plastered around his face by the rain, _red_ hair-

Brienne moaned aloud with dismay _. Must every ghost of my life return to haunt me?_ The man’s arms were red and white griffins, opposed. _Ronnet Connington._

She turned in the saddle to face Podrick.‘Give me the parchment,’ she ordered, ‘and pray. It’s too late to... Mya. These soldiers… if… if this goes wrong, just ride. Hard. Go home, and take Podrick with you. Promise me!’

‘You tried to dismiss me like that back at the crossroads,’ said Mya. ‘It won’t work this time either.’ But Brienne saw a little of her own alarm reflected in the girl’s eyes.

The group slowed to a halt twenty yards away; the red-haired knight rode toward them with one of his men, the one carrying the banner. ‘Look at the fucking state of this,’ said the standard bearer, apropos of nothing. Brienne could only stare numbly. The knight had at first worn an expression of frank astonishment, but his features gradually settled into a resentful glower.

‘The Maid of Tarth,’ he announced. ‘More lovely than ever. Is that a love bite, or have you been fighting another bear?’

Brienne had no notion of what to say. She hadn’t truly seen Ser Ronnet since the day he came to Tarth. He’d been in Renly’s camp, just one among hundreds of knights, and one she had even less reason to seek out than the others. That day in the melee, raining blows on his shield with her morning-star, was the only time they’d been fifty yards of each other.

He hadn’t taken part in Hyle Hunt’s wager. _Of course not. Tarth itself was not enough to entice him; a few gold dragons would hardly change his mind._

He looked much the same as she remembered; tall and handsome, with greyish-blue eyes. But he’d only been seventeen when he arrived at Evenfall; now he seemed to be bigger, broader in the shoulders, his youthful fuzz grown out into a full ruddy beard.

His looks were somewhat spoiled by bruising on one side of his mouth, and swollen lips. Brienne wasn’t surprised by that. Even as a youth, Red Ronnet was said to have a fiery temper, and evidently hadn’t lost his fondness for brawling.

‘And still as eloquent as I remember. No words of greeting for me, _again_?’

The barb hurt, and as Brienne’s jaw tensed, the tightening skin around the edges of her bite wound pulled painfully. _I am not the girl he mocked so long ago. I owe this man no courtesies._

‘Did you expect any?’ she heard herself say.

She forced her eyes away from Connington. The men behind him wore yellow and black, and looked like as rough and hoary a mob as Brienne had ever seen. Their prisoner, a great fat man, was staring at the ground, white as milk and trembling. He looked utterly broken. With a growing trepidation she noted that the soldiers were eyeing her – and Mya too – in a cold, appraising manner that was unpleasantly familiar.

‘Your men bear the arms of House Clegane,’ Brienne said warily. ‘Do you fight for Ser Gregor now?’

He looked a little surprised by the suggestion. ‘For him, no. For the crown… ever since Blackwater. This fat sack of suet was in the dungeons at Harrenhal, and I’ve been tasked with travelling him to White Harbour. My commander was generous enough to give me these fine upstanding men-at-arms as an escort.’ A few of the men gave coarse chuckles at the description.

Brienne tried to order her thoughts. She’d heard in the capital that Gregor Clegane had been sent to retake Harrenhal from its occupants. If he’d succeeded, then the Brave Companions were all dead… or fleeing like Rorge and Biter.

‘Is Vargo Hoat still at Harrenhal?’

‘In a sense, dear lady. Your tormentor is in the lichyard. Excepting those parts of him which are lying in latrine ditches. He tried to take you, didn’t he? A brave man indeed.’

Brienne could only think of Jaime; the way that, under his smiles and jests, he’d stared at Hoat on their journey, those green eyes glittering with malice. _A Lannister always pays his debts,_ he’d said _._ He’d been robbed of the chance to settle this one.

‘I see you’ve found a handmaiden as delicate as you are,’ Ronnet had continued, waving a hand at Mya in her men’s clothing. ‘To what purpose? What brings you to these lands?’

Brienne wordlessly handed over the warrant. The man bared his teeth as his eyes moved over the parchment. ‘You _have_ enjoyed a change of fortunes, haven’t you? Perhaps I should have wed you while I had the chance. You carry the words of His Grace, and the boy’s own uncle defends your honour. ’

‘My honour?’ said Brienne, lost.

‘Ah,’ replied Ronnet, gesturing to his bruises. ‘I must beg your forgiveness, Brienne. I made an ungallant remark about you, back at Harrenhal. Ser Jaime, _honourable_ knight that he is, chastised me.’

She felt the world spin around her. ‘Jaime?’ she stuttered. ‘What –is-is he still-?’

Ronnet watched her struggling for words, then burst into laughter. ‘Seven Gods, it’s true _! You_ and the Kingslayer? Did he lose his mind as well as his paw? Or is it that kingslayers band together?’ He shook his head incredulously. ‘Your beloved is not at Harrenhal, my lady. He took his men and moved on.’

Brienne composed herself with an effort, and looked into the man’s eyes. ‘Remember how I once _chastised_ you far more strongly than that? Go about your task, and yield the road.’

Ronnet just pulled at his beard. ‘You are bitter,’ he said conversationally, ‘about the way men have treated you. Being knocked off my horse by a great wench maddened with moon blood was hardly the greatest shame of my life. I survived the field of Blackwater, my lady. How many battles has the Maid of Tarth spilt blood in? Being huge and angry does not make you a knight.’

‘Ser was huge and angry, and they made him a knight,’ offered the soldier beside him.

‘True enough, Shitmouth. You see, Brienne? There’s hope for you yet. You are right about one thing; we have a task to attend to. Follow in our tracks and you’ll soon reach Harrenhal. Good luck there. If you find any bears, leave the poor creatures alone.’

 

On the morning of the third day, the hills parted and they could see the castle at last; five crooked black towers stretching up from its great curtain wall. Behind it stretched the great glassy expanse of the God’s Eye lake. The others had never seen such a fortress before. Even half-ruined, the sight of the place struck them into silence.

Brienne, for her part, felt the fear hit her like a blow to the gut. If they’d eaten that morning, she might have retched it up there and then. _They are gone, or dead_ , she told herself. But even putting a sword through Rorge, watching his life’s blood running down her arm, hadn’t kept his face out of her dreams. Harrenhal was a castle full of things that didn’t die.

This time it was not the direwolf but the stag-and-lion that flew from the gatehouse towers, and at least some of the living remained there; the gates opened as they approached, and two riders emerged on fine grey horses, wearing identical purple-and-white surcoats, slender lances held pointed up at their sides. Brienne drew herself up in the saddle.

‘We are the Holy Hundred,’ announced one of the soldiers, noncommittally.

‘I am Brienne of Tarth. I am on King Tommen’s business, and would speak to whatever lord rules here.’

‘You are a _woman_?’ said the nearest soldier, a young blond man, in disapproving tones. ‘Wielding a sword is for the Warrior, not the Maiden. ’

‘I honour the Maiden no less than the Warrior, and the other five besides,’ retorted Brienne. ‘Will you deny us shelter?’

The young man looked unconvinced, but he and his companion fell in either side of them and escorted them through the gatehouse. In the yard inside, black and muddy, he leaned over his saddle to whisper with a boy squire, who ran off about his business. The walls and buildings in front of Brienne were half-familiar, but the place looked even more empty than she remembered. Bar a few of the Holy Hundred, patrolling the battlements in twos, she could see no sign of life. When the great gates closed behind her, she felt sweat break out down her back, in spite of the damp and chill.

‘Do your men always patrol In pairs?’ wondered Pod.

‘Always. The Seven watch us, and we watch one another.’

‘How many of your company hold this place, ser?’ Brienne asked the soldier, trying to keep her breathing steady and level.

‘Our full strength, lady,’ he replied. ‘Eighty-six.’

‘That is not near enough, for a castle of such size.’ Harrenhal supposedly had stabling for a thousand horses. Bolton’s men and the Mummers combined had not been half enough to properly garrison the place. Perhaps no army in the world would be.

‘The Lord Commander could spare no more,’ the man was saying. ‘It is of no matter. No great armies threaten this place, and the Holy Hundred are better equipped to hold it than most.’

‘Do you not fear the curse?’

‘I do _not,_ lady. I am armoured in faith. True, others met terrible ends here. We are not Lothstons, nor Cleganes.’ At the name, Brienne dropped a hand to her shield, once with the arms of House Lothston, now repainted. It had come from the armoury here.

The boy squire had come back, and exchanged words with the blond horseman. He nodded, then dismounted and walked over to Brienne, helmet held respectfully under his arm.

‘Our lord castellan is dining. He invites you to join him.’

 

Brienne was escorted through the outer ward of Harrenhal, and at length came to a tower, and a spiral staircase. By that time Brienne had to _force_ herself on, step by step, struggling against the panic that threatened to smother her wits.

They emerged not into the great Hall of a Hundred Hearths, where she and Jaime had dined with a former lord of Harrenhal, but a smaller dining room, with only a single fireplace. There was a humble wooden table, with a candlestick and a platter in the centre; mutton and chickpeas with black bread. Guards in purple-and-white stood flawlessly to attention at the back of the room, and at the head of the table was a grey-haired knight with a long face and a grave expression. Brienne’s young soldier delivered the warrant, whispered in his master’s ear, and left the room.

‘You look wary, my lady,’ said the man. ‘Fear not. Whatever misfortunes once befell you here are long past. The Seven cast their light even in dark places like this.’

‘Ser Bonifer the Good,’ said Brienne, ‘ _You_ are the new castellan here.’

‘Brienne the Blue,’ said the man, inclining his head. Brienne started. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed her that way… but perhaps Bonifer Hasty had a right to. He’d been sworn to King Renly, like most knights of the Stormlands, and had watched from the dias the day she won her melee and her rainbow cloak.

‘My king is dead,’ Brienne said quietly. ‘I can no longer use that title.’

‘ _Our_ king. You are right, though, my lady. He is dead, and now we both serve another king.’ He had unrolled her parchment and was studying it in the light of the seven candles on the stick. He motioned the food on the table. ‘Join me. Eat, if you wish.’

‘You declared for Stannis,’ said Brienne accusingly, but sat down at the table.

‘I was pledged to House Baratheon,’ Bonifer said tonelessly. ‘A knight’s first duty is to serve his master’s house. That comes before all else. I knew Lord Stannis consorted with that blasphemous witch, of course… that is why I first declared for Lord Renly, though his claim to the throne was weaker. A man cannot fight every battle, though. Sometimes you must swear to an unworthy lord, and serve him loyally nonetheless.’

Brienne thought about Robert’s children. ‘You believe the truth of Stannis’ letter.’

‘I do, my lady. Blasphemer or no, Lord Stannis had many admirable qualities. He is not a man who would lie for his personal gain.’

‘He is more than a blasphemer,’ growled Brienne, feeling a hot anger rising in her chest. ‘He is a treacherous kinslayer, and a coward too.’

Hasty gave her a long, thoughtful look. ‘That last is ill said, my lady. Lord Stannis is possessed of a courage I have rarely seen in men. He seems to have mastered his fear entirely, broken it like a wild horse… which may have contributed to his overconfidence at the Blackwater. The will of the Seven is difficult to foresee.’

Brienne looked down, face flushed, and set to cutting her meat. _More ghosts_. This was a different room, a smaller and more humble hall, but she could almost feel Jaime’s hand on hers, warning her to check her temper, just like the day they dined opposite Lord Bolton.

‘The Seven send men trials, but they do not act blindly.’ Bonifer continued, while Brienne chewed her food. ‘Stannis suffered in his long siege, and became a stronger man as a result. So his latest defeat will change him again. Even a man who insults the gods may be their tool.’ He had rolled up the parchment. ‘You are on the king’s business, then. What business?’

‘I seek a missing girl. She is young, no more than ten or eleven years, slim and dark-haired. ‘

‘Does she have a name?’

Brienne had had time to think about this, since her search began so clumsily on the road to Duskendale. ‘She does, my lord, but she will not be using it. I do not know what name she will be travelling under.’

‘But you believe you will find her in this castle.’

‘It may be so. I know the girl I seek served here under Tywin Lannister, and perhaps Roose Bolton too. I would to speak to any members of your household who might remember her.’

‘I fear you ask more than I can deliver, my lady. Lady Whent’s people are gone. Neither Hoat nor Clegane kept large households,’ he pondered. ‘They beat, raped and killed their servants. Any gods-fearing man or woman would have fled… and most did. Even now, my men are served only by their squires. We hope that smallfolk will return to the castle once the peace is established.’

‘Is there _no-one_?’ asked Brienne, almost pleadingly. Her cheek felt unpleasantly warm and wet, causing her pain when she chewed.

‘There is an armourer,’ allowed Hasty. ‘Blackthumb. His skills kept him alive under each new master… but he is a half-blind old man who barely leaves his forge. I doubt he would be of use to you.’ Then his face took on a sour expression. ‘Of course… there was also the girl. A buttery maid, once, but by all accounts she spent most of her time in _other_ work.’

Brienne grasped at the thread. Surely Arya would have spent time with others close to her own age. _Perhaps the girl was Arya herself_. ‘Do you know her name, my lord? Is she here still?’

Hasty pursed his lips. ‘ _Pia_ was her name.I had her sent away. My men are servants of the Seven, and I would not have them exposed to such a fount of corruption.’

‘Where is she, then?’

‘The Lord Commander agreed to take her with his train. I presume she is with him at Riverrun.’

 _Jaime_. Brienne’s heart jumped. _Now_ _I_ must _go to him._

Hasty seemed to notice the reaction. ‘Ah, yes. You know the man, do you not? You were both captives of Hoat. Well, you have nothing more to fear from that one. He met his fate, as such creatures always will.’

Brienne nodded weakly. ‘I heard. But… why did Ser Jaime leave the capital?’

‘The crown has decreed that the siege of Riverrun must be ended. The Lord Commander was given a troop of reinforcements and sent to bring peace to the Riverlands, one way or another. He stopped on his way to resolve the situation here.’ Hasty leaned forward, his long solemn face shining in the candlelight. ‘As for Ser Jaime himself… I told you, my lady, the Seven do not work blindly. When the Smith above beats a man upon his anvil, it oft gives him a new temper. I believe Ser Jaime’s suffering may serve a higher purpose. Entrusting this castle to me and my Hundred was a sign of faith.’

‘J – Ser Jaime is a better man than people hold,’ Brienne confided. ‘I have seen him act bravely and selflessly, to protect the innocent.’

Ser Bonifer regarded her again, and, for the first time in the conversation, _smiled_. It was a strange sight – he showed no teeth, but the corners of his mouth pushed up and out, casting deep indentations into his cheeks.

‘Do you think I was always Bonifer the Good, the Stork of Harrenhal? Yes, I have heard that, and a hundred other names besides. I hold no grudges against the men who cannot understand my life. The Crone brings them all wisdom, in time. But I was young once, a lovestruck gallant who took ladies’ favours and fought in tourneys. You are young, but perhaps your parents would have long enough memories to remember my victories.’ He sighed.

‘There is something I should tell you, my lady. You perhaps know how Ser Jaime balks at the name _Kingslayer_. He told me that would rather the common folk call him _Goldenhand the Just_. He made a jest of it, as is his way, but I could feel the truth lying under his words. The Lannisters have committed graver sins than most… but no man is beyond redemption. One of that family has joined the Orders Militant, and the other…’ Ser Bonifer trailed off.

‘My lord,’ said Brienne, after a long silence, ‘I must go on to Riverrun… but my journey has been long. May I beg the hospitality of your hall?’

‘You may, Lady Brienne. I will send you a maester to tend your injuries. But I must insist that you and you lady companion eat and sleep well apart from my Hundred.’

That brought an old memory floating to the surface. Brienne found herself sharing it almost unthinkingly. ‘At Renly’s camp, some young knights placed a wager on my maidenhead. Lord Tarly punished them… but he told me that if one of them tried to force himself on me, I would carry the blame.’

Ser Bonifer gave that queer smile again. ‘On that, Lord Tarly and I would disagree. Every man must bear his own sins. It is not fair, I think, for him to cast the burden of them onto his victims. And yet – all men sin, and it is better not to create temptation.’

 

The flask Jeyne had given Brienne had been empty for a day, but Maester Gulian sniffed at the dregs and nodded his head confidently. ‘Indeed, I recognise the mixture. The Citadel does not hold a monopoly on knowledge, my lady. Folk leechcraft has virtues too, although-‘ he sniffed again, this time disparagingly – ‘even a novice maester could have made the brew more potent.’

‘My chest feels better,’ said Brienne. ‘Now the pain is only a shadow.’

‘That is good, my lady.’ His fingers twitched. ‘Though I wish you would allow me to examine your wounds without your clothing. A maester must be allowed to practice his craft.’

Brienne remembered how Qyburn had _examined_ her in this place once before, with Bolton men sniggering outside the door, and shuddered away from his hands. ‘No,’ she said, grinding her teeth. ‘Tell me what you make of the wound on my face.’

She had to steel herself to endure the touch of his clammy fingers on her skin without flinching away, as he pulled the filthy dressing off her bite. Even so, she threw him a sharp glance when his hand seemed to linger too long on her cheek. In return, Gulian gave her a hurt look.

‘The wound has not been kept clean enough. I can tell that from the discoloration. Yet the corruption has not settled deeply. Were you in my care, I would apply maggots and vinegar every day… as you mean to travel on, the best course may be to burn it clean. Have you heard of _firemilk_ , my lady?’

 

Brienne felt her face must be as blackened and ruined as Harrenhal itself. She walked through the deserted streets in a daze. The men of the Holy Hundred were at evenfall prayers, save one man in every ten, drawn each day with lots, who was excused so that the castle never stood defenceless.

 _I never screamed_ , she told herself, though tears had flowed freely down her cheeks as the stuff did it work. Jaime had screamed, when Qyburn had done his bloody work the last time she was here – Brienne had heard it from her own chambers, flinching at each cry as if she was the one under the saw. Maester Gulian had promised her that the worst of the scarring would pass, but she’d refused to look into a glass. _I was never a beauty. I have lost nothing. Every knight has battle scars._

Two riders trotted through the street on their handsome steeds, dipping their lances in salute as they passed Brienne. Perhaps it was the thought of Jaime, but her steps had taken her through the outer ward and across Flowstone Yard, silent and empty where once dozens of men had trained with weapons… and a familiar edifice reared up in front of her. _The pit._ She stopped, steadied her breathing, and determinedly mounted the stairs to look the place over.

In the waning light, she could see the portcullised doorway at one side of the arena. There she’d been forced out at spearpoint, hearing the taunts of the Mummers, and the roars of the bear as the sellswords threw stones to enrage it. She’d marched out that day with a straight back, determined to die well in front of these men, even armed only with a useless sparring sword, and…

_And he’d come back for her._

It was stupid, impossible, the same fool’s hope that had stopped her seeing through Hyle Hunt and his friends. Brienne was under no illusions about her looks, or her social graces. But there was no denying the things Jaime had done, and said.

She had loved Renly once, and never told him - but if he never knew it, he was the only man in camp who didn’t. She’d heard the whispers and the stifled laughter every time she stood guard by his side, or dressed him for battle. But Renly had been her lord. _This_ was something different.

Back in King’s Landing, she’d met Cersei, the golden twin, whose courtesies cut deeper than Jaime’s taunts ever had. And _she’d_ presented Brienne with the terrible, frightening truth. Brienne had fled the feast to try and make sense of it all. _You are a warrior_ , she’d told herself, _not some damsel simpering from a tower window_. _You must show courage_. And so she’d gathered all her resolve, _forced_ herself to look into Jaime’s eyes, that day in the White Tower, and told him –

_And for you._

Had he understood? She’d looked hard for some kind of sign, ruing her lack of experience with such things, until they were outside the gates, when she realised all of a sudden that their time together was over. For a moment she thought, a lump overtaking her throat, that she’d been mistaken all along, _of course_ she was only a travelling companion to him, scarcely even a friend –

She’d turned to look back at him, then, and seen him staring back, seemingly unaware that his legs were moving, drifting toward her like a sleepwalker…

And he’d fought Red Ronnet Connington, _one-handed_ , for her.

She vowed not to let the moment pass again. Next time she’d tell him the truth, more plainly, and if he laughed at her, and called her an ugly deluded beast, then… she would live with that scar too.

The daylight had almost ebbed away when Brienne saw the light of a lantern behind her. She turned, squinting into the light, but the shape before her was only Mya.

‘I didn’t know where you were,’ she said, shivering. ‘This place is a tomb. It feels emptier than the Eyrie ever did.’

Brienne stepped into the circle of light, almost gratified to see Mya cringe at the burns on her face. ‘Is Podrick with you?’

‘He’s eating in the soldiers’ mess hall. They wouldn’t let me in. I had to get my own food from the kitchens.’ She paused. ‘My lady… they have a bath house here. Huge stone tubs, large enough for ten.’

 _I know that_ , thought Brienne, not seeing where she was going.

‘I persuaded a couple of these pious boys to fill one of them,’ she prompted. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to share it with me? Seeing as we are the only two ladies in this castle.’

 

 

It was not the tub she’d shared with Jaime – this one was closer to the back of the room. But the steam and the murky waters were all too familiar. Brienne felt as self-conscious as she had the last time. _At least it’s dark_ , she thought. Only the torches on the wall nearest the door had been lit, and much of the room was in deep shadow.

She awkwardly shrugged off her swordbelt, and her battered tunic. When she glanced up, Mya was already lowering herself into the water from the side. Soon she was immersed up to her narrow shoulders. She ducked her head under and emerged again, her shaggy black hair now hanging limp, streaming water down her face. Brienne pulled off the rest of her clothes and hesitantly crept in down the steps. The water was warm, but still made her gasp. She could feel its weight pressing on her tender, half-healed ribs.

She commenced scrubbed efficiently, staring into the water, not looking up. All the same, she felt Mya’s gaze boring into her. Brienne didn’t know whether the girl was goggling at her injuries or her mannish body. When she could stand it no longer, she dropped her arms to her sides, grunting and throwing a accusing glance. ‘What?’

‘You talk so little, my lady,’ Mya said meekly. ‘People at home called me quiet, but they never met you.’

‘You are one of Baelish’s songbirds,’ said Brienne flatly. ‘You ask about me because _he_ is curious. Do you think I want to become involved with that man, to dance on his strings?’

‘Do you think _I_ wanted to?’ whispered Mya.

Brienne put up her elbows and raised herself slightly out of the water. Some of the weight lifted off her chest and her breathing came easier. ‘What did you do to displease him?’

The girl didn’t answer for a while, apparently concentrating on scrubbing her shoulders clean. Minutes must have passed before she finally looked up at Brienne. ‘Forgive the question, my lady, I mean no harm by it, but… do you prefer knights or ladies?’

Brienne felt herself blushing. ‘Knights.’

‘Knights. I’m the same, though some wonder when they see me in short hair and breeches.’ She noticed Brienne’s reddening face. ‘A pity you never met my friend Randa,’ she laughed. ‘She could have made you blush until your helmet glowed red-hot.’

Brienne returned her gaze to the murky waters. ‘You might as well call me by my name, Mya. Your blood is at least as noble as mine.’

‘I don’t know… my lady. Gendry didn’t want to think of himself as highborn. He seemed embarrassed by the whole thing. I almost understand.’

Brienne just shrugged. ‘Smallfolk have harder lives. The things I have seen in the Riverlands… we mourn the dead of the great houses, but thousands more have suffered and died. Most will be forgotten.’

‘How old are you, my lady?’ asked Mya.

‘Twenty,’ she said dully. But the expression in the girl’s face provoked Brienne more than she expected. ‘I don’t want your _pity_ , Mya,’ she almost snarled. ‘I chose this life. I am nobody’s victim.’

Mya lowered herself down into the water again, so that her mouth was only just above the surface. ‘We were talking about me. _Knights_ are the reason I am here. One knight. I forgot I was lowborn, my lady. We were both sixteen, and… I never thought I could be as happy as I was with him. I bestowed my maidenhead on him, gladly. I would have wed him, too.’

‘I was sixteen when I was last betrothed,’ admitted Brienne. ‘I refused to play the part of a wife unless he could best me in combat. _No,_ ’ she added, pre-empting Mya’s question.

Mya smiled, but her expression grew solemn again. ‘That is why I do not pity you. You were luckier than most, to be allowed to place conditions on your betrothal.’

‘My father indulges me,’ said Brienne. ‘He was willing to let me train with swords and dress like a boy, and even march off to war. It was not what he wanted of me. He loved me too much to speak of his disapproval, but I could see it all the same. I am his only child. If only one of my sisters had survived, or Galladon…’

Brienne heaved a sigh, feeling the oldest and deepest wound of all open up, so great and yawning that she feared it would swallow her whole.

‘I have not sent word to him since I left home. Probably he knows I live – those foolish stories must have reached Tarth by now, changed along the way into fiction. What can I tell him? How can I go back? He will marry me off to some old knight, _anyone_ who will take me, and then I must produce heirs, and… it will be over for me. But I have a duty to my House… how can I ignore it? All my life I have told myself that Father will marry again, and the duty is not mine alone… but now…’

Brienne seemed to come back to herself, realising how much she had said, and coloured again, this time angrily. _Was this how Jaime felt here? Did he truly mean to tell me about Aerys?_ She grimaced and stood up from the water. ‘There. You have heard enough secrets to impress your lord. Go to him with my blessing. I’m leaving here in the morning.’

‘I will tell no-one,’ said Mya softly. ‘Please trust me. I do not think you a fool.’

 _‘Brienne,’_ she added. ‘Please? _’_

But Brienne was already wrapping herself up and marching toward the door.


	6. Riverrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice long chapter for you. Hopefully the next instalment will be up quicker than the last two.
> 
> The two maps I’ve seen place Raventree in completely different locations. I’m saying east of Riverrun, south of the Red Fork because ~story~.

Two of the Hundred accompanied them to the edge of Harrenhal’s demesne, and indicated the shepherd’s trail through the hills that would take them most of the way to Riverrun. As they went west, the hills became less bare, and red and brown broadleaf woods began to break up the stark landscape.

Brienne and Podrick were up a tree.

Fleetingly, through the dense undergrowth, they’d been able to see patches of sky to their right; Brienne thought the trail they were on must run alongside a steep drop, most likely a gorge of some sort. She’d told the others that she wanted to get a good look around them, and adeptly scaled a tall rowan that still had dense leaf cover. Before long, she wasn’t entirely surprised to hear Podrick struggling up after her, haltingly, cursing under his breath. Brienne had always been a strong climber. Podrick clearly wasn’t. Mya apparently knew her limitations – she’d remained below, holding the horses and looking around with a disgruntled expression.

Not for the first time since Harrenhal, Brienne felt regret. Mya had appeared in the castle’s cavernous stables the morning they left like nothing had happened, as if she was daring Brienne to dismiss her. She’d barely spoken in the last two days, even to Pod. It had hardly occurred to Brienne before that her habitual wariness could inflict hurt. _I am like a knight attending a feast in full armour, sword in hand. I protect myself but I offend those who mean me no harm._

She reached down and pulled Podrick’s arm, helping him up to her level. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘This is no mere gorge.’ It wasn’t; a whole valley stretched out below them, all yellow grass and clusters of auburn trees. These would probably have been fertile lands before the war - the fields and woods alike looked heavily worked. At the bottom of the valley nestled a castle, ancient and half-overgrown, more green than grey. Outside its walls stood an army; from its highest tower flew the direwolf.

The sight of that symbol made Brienne catch her breath and almost lose her grip on Podrick’s shoulder. _Men still fight for the Starks._

‘Can we have reached Riverrun already?’ asked the boy, confused. Brienne knew they hadn’t. She’d spent weeks in that castle in the service of Lady Catelyn, watching the defences be prepared for the expected siege. This wasn’t Riverrun. It was hardly a siege, either. She could see no towers, rams, or catapults. There barely seemed to be any activity from the besieging camp, although the hour was near midday.

‘House Bracken,’ he said, looking at the device on the largest tent. ‘Why aren’t they attacking?’

‘They don’t have the equipment, or the men. There can only be a few hundred of them. They’re waiting for a surrender. What else do you notice?’ He looked blank. ‘No pickets, no outriders. We shouldn’t have been able to get this close unobserved. This is poor siegecraft.’ _Or perhaps they know that the war is won, and there are no more enemy armies to watch for._

They climbed down, and Brienne brushed herself off. ‘There’s a siege going on below us, Mya. We’ll turn to the south and avoid the valley altogether,’ she said. ‘The river lords will call us Lannisters, the king’s men might call us rebels or deserters, and either might kill us before we have a chance to announce ourselves.’

 

The detour cost them time; the track south was long and unbroken by signs of civilisation. The skies had cleared, so that they could orient themselves by the sun, but the days remained chilly. Brienne turned them west when she felt they had made a wide enough arc around the Bracken host; this time they kept their heading by a great hill, head and shoulders above its neighbours, that lay off in the distance ahead.

They passed some speck of a village nestled between two hillocks, the locals fleeing into their holdfast and watching from the walls until the travellers had passed. The next day, they found something that explained the caution; a village that had been entirely ruined, the only recognisable building a scorched and desecrated sept. Brienne felt like she could she hardly remember the world as it had been; all she knew was the smell of ash, the harsh call of carrion crows, and the creak of branches bearing hanged men. It seemed impossible to think that in Dorne, and the Reach, and across the ocean, life was going on as normal.

They made camp on the edge of a golden-leaved wood. Podrick used a sapling near the edge of their clearing to tie a snare, and was pleased when it caught a young boar. Brienne was going to instruct him on skinning and butchering the animal, but he looked up, seemingly more embarrassed than usual. ‘I know what to do, my lady. I remember it now.’ She left him to his work and returned to the fire, choosing a seat close to Mya, who was busily sharpening the sword Gendry had given them.

Brienne resisted the urge to correct the girl’s technique. _I am not their mother_. It was an absurd thought for someone barely older than they were. _Younger, in some ways_.

‘Mya,’ she said, looking across the fire. ‘I feel like I owe you something. I will tell you a truth you deserve to know.’ The stare she got in response was wary and resentful. ‘ The girls we seek are the Stark daughters. _That_ is why Lord Baelish is so interested in their fate. Perhaps you suspected something,’ she added, seeing Mya’s expression change. ‘Alayne is no daughter of his.’

‘Sansa Stark?’ Mya looked taken aback, but eventually produced a grin. ‘Is _everyone_ secretly the offspring of a great House? I bet the next old crone we pass on the road will be Aegon Targaryen in disguise.’ Then the smile vanished more quickly than it had appeared, and she shook her head. ‘My lady… that only raises more questions. You’re from the Stormlands, not the north. What is _your_ interest in them? Why would Jaime Lannister help you?’

Brienne didn’t know how to begin explaining those things. _I’d be sat in that bathtub baring my soul for a week._ Mya watched her silence, looking exasperated. Then she tapped on the hilt of her sword. ‘I barely know how to use this,’ she said. ‘Will you train me, the way you do Podrick?’

That surprised Brienne. ‘I am no master-at-arms,’ she frowned. ‘Sparring with one person is not like instructing a group.’

‘Hardly a _group_ ,’ retorted Mya. ‘Could you oversee us sparring with each other?’

‘Neither of you would learn anything, and you’d probably hurt yourselves,’ said Brienne a little too abruptly. ‘I’ll think about it tomorrow,’ she said, to mollify the girl.

They ate well, and wrapped some meat in their packs. Podrick volunteered to take the first watch, so Brienne settled down under her cloak, head pillowed on her oak shield. She’d been sleeping soundly since they left Harrenhal behind, but now she _dreamed_ , and vividly – she saw the great hill they’d left behind, a ring of weirwoods like the one she remembered from Riverrun, and then there were griffins, red and white, descending from the sky, rending her face with their cruel talons, leaving ugly scars-

She woke trembling, but there was nothing around her but the indistinct shape of Mya, wrapped tight in her bedroll, snoring gently. Brienne sat up and composed herself. _I have Ronnet Connington to blame for that. But he is no threat to me in White Harbour._

The feeling of being _watched_ began as they left the wood, and did not abate as they continued west through patchy farmland and untended fields.

 

They forded a rushing river, not the great Red Fork itself, but surely one of its tributaries. Brienne thought to find the Red Fork by following the water upstream, but the river twisted and looped back on itself, and she began to wonder whether they were getting closer to Riverrun, or leaving it further behind. In the early afternoon, they stopped to try to take their bearings, at a place where the waterside was heavily covered with drooping willow trees.

Brienne had splashed into the river to fill her waterskin, and stopped dead when caught a glimpse of something moving in the foliage on the far bank. The trees parted to reveal a man, with the weatherbeaten skin of an outdoorsman, dressed in practical leathers over a green tunic. He was untying the strings of his breeches with one hand, obviously intending to relieve himself in the shallows.

He said nothing, just looked her up and down, then disappeared back the way he’d come. A moment later they heard the sound of hoofbeats, and not one but two horses went thundering along the opposite bank, quicky disappearing from view.

_They’re_ _heading for the ford we used earlier._ ‘The crossing must be four leagues back,’ she told to the others. ‘If we ride hard away from the river, we can lose them while they’re still on the other side.’

They mounted and moved on quickly, but it was less than an hour before they saw a cloud of riders at their back. ‘There must have been another ford,’ cursed Brienne. ‘One we passed without noticing. They know these lands better than we do.’

They rode long into the evening without stopping, but the men at their back kept a steady distance and never let them out of sight. When they pushed their mounts, the riders behind too; when they eased off, so did their pursuers. Brienne’s trepidation was growing. She trusted her own stamina, and presumably Mya was no stranger to long rides, but she wondered about both Pod and his horse. The boy was already pale and grimacing with each jolt of the ground beneath them. He’d become stubborn, though. Nobody suggested resting.

Night fell, but there was just enough moonlight to ride by; the landscape was becoming rockier, a ridge rising up in the direction of the sunset. ‘We can lose them in there,’ Brienne gasped, as if trying to convince herself. In a valley between rocky bluffs, they stopped for a few hours, almost falling from their saddles, but the darkness had apparently swallowed their pursuit.

They set off again before dawn had broken, and Brienne thought to ride hard to the north; if they covered enough ground, they might slip away before the trackers realised they had changed direction. Sure enough, though, the riders in green and brown were waiting over the next hill, and their mounts still had the strength to ride at the group _hard_ – they turned about and fled blindly back the way they had come.

Once they were heading south again, the pursuit slackened back to its old rhythm. The uncomfortable feeling that had been scratching at the back of Brienne’s mind finally crystallised. _We are being shepherded._

Brienne sensed the snare tightening that evening, as surely as it had closed around Podrick’s boar back in the woods. Finally, yawning wide before them, was the great expanse of the Red Fork; on a rise by the bank stood _another_ group of horsemen, fresh and unspent. For all her strength, Brienne was aching and damp with sweat; the others looked no better. Podrick was falling behind and looked like he might drop at any moment.

The men on the rise were led by a knight, who removed his helmet as they approached. The other pursuers had fanned out wide behind them, drawing bows from beside their saddles. Brienne reined in reluctantly, hearing her mare blowing hard.

‘Enough!’ called the knight, shaking out long copper-coloured hair. ‘There is no way out.’

Mya grimaced in frustration and spurred her own panting mount into what seemed to be a gap in the lines, but the fresh horsemen were already tumbling down the hillside toward her. The bowmen had notched arrows, and one of them loosed. The missile found its mark; Mya’s cry echoed starkly around the bank. Brienne wheeled around, thinking of the archers who had killed Cleos Frey. But she could not guide her exhausted mount to scatter these men. They were thinly spread and they had horses too; they could simply dance away from her if she tried.

‘That was a warning,’ the knight continued. ‘The next ones will go through your necks. Dismount and kneel.’

There was nothing to do. Feeling a bitter taste in her mouth, Brienne swung herself down and did as she was bid. Podrick followed, and Mya half-fell out of the saddle, pale and bleeding. The long-haired knight and his men had dismounted too, and were strolling down the bank toward them.

‘Quite the chase you took us on,’ nodded the knight, when he was close enough. ‘Why are you so keen to avoid the king’s soldiers?’ Brienne was trying to find words, but the man grunted in surprise and spoke first. ‘Seven Gods. I know who you are, my lady. I might have recognised you earlier, but for that bandage. Stand.’

Brienne looked up uncertainly, wiping her lank sweat-sodden hair from her eyes. The man was tall and lean and fair-looking, with a scarred and lined face. She was sure they’d never met.

‘Addam Marbrand,’ he supplied. ‘I was in King’s Landing when you returned Jaime to the city.’

Brienne dimly recognised the name. He was one of the western commanders, one of those who’d been repulsed by Edmure Tully at the fords. _The tables have turned entirely_. _Now Lord Edmure is a prisoner, and this man enforces the peace of the riverlands_.

‘Did you ride out here with Ser Jaime?’ she said tentatively.

‘Indeed, and he ordered me to ensure that nobody came within two days of Riverrun without him knowing.’ He frowned. ‘Do you still fight for the Starks?’

_Yes. No. ’_ My lord, I must see Ser Jaime. I have a private matter to discuss with him.’

Marbrand seemed to ruminate on that. He looked over at Mya, clutching at her arm. Brienne followed his gaze. The arrow had only skimmed the flesh; it was bloody but it didn’t look serious. ‘ _That_ is your fault,’ he said. ‘If your purpose was honest, you should have announced yourselves openly. Those men are from House Sarsfield, sworn to the Lannisters even as I am.’

‘I am mistrustful by nature,’ retorted Brienne. ‘King’s men burned half of the riverlands. If an honest purpose was shield enough, many currently dead would be living, and my friend would not be wounded. I hoped to reach Riverrun without encountering _any_ soldiers.’

‘Your hope was a foolish one, my lady. My outriders are the best in the seven kingdoms.’ He said it with a measure of pride, but not bombast. ‘Be grateful that you met us and not our enemies.’

‘Does the siege continue, my lord?’

‘As far as I know, it does. I was due to return to the Lord Commander’s side, when this little distraction came up.’ He turned to look to the north. ‘Of course I will escort you to Riverrun,’ he said. ‘I fear you and I need to have words along the way.’

 

The company rested for the night, giving the men and horses some respite, and Brienne tied a strip of cloth around Mya’s wound.

‘We are better off,’ Brienne tried to reassure her. ‘Now we have an escort. This man is reputed to be a good knight.’

‘I don’t feel better off,’ complained Mya. ‘Will you tell me that a bowman firing quickly, from horseback, at a moving target, knew for certain he would inflict only a flesh wound? And poor Pod will be too stiff to move in the morning. _Careful_.’ She winced as Brienne tightened the makeshift bandage.

‘You were not forced to come along, Mya,’ said Brienne sternly. ‘Far from it.’

‘Aye, I should have stayed, alone, in that lichyard of a castle, then made my way halfway across the realm, alone, to an unfriendly welcome in what was once my home.’

Brienne huffed and got to her feet, but Mya reached up and grabbed her sleeve as she turned away.

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ she muttered, looking at the ground. ‘I’m just angry. I don’t quite know how I ended up here.’

 

When they set off the following day Marbrand rode by Brienne’s side, and treated her with a careful courtesy that made her all the more suspicious.

‘Why did your men herd us so far south?’ she wondered. ‘It would have been easier for them to drive us straight west into your camps.’

‘The eastern shore is held by the subjugated river lords, and those are not men whose loyalties I trust,’ replied Marbrand tersely. ‘I would prefer to keep you out of their hands. Better that we cross the river further upstream and ride directly into our own camp.’

‘You talk of loyalty, ser. Your House is the one that made common cause with the Freys.’

Marbrand smiled. ‘We have some Freys at Riverrun, too. They hold the north-west bank. I do not fear betrayal from them, my lady. No men will ever trust them again. The alliance with House Lannister is their last protection. They would never jeopardise it.’

They rode without speaking for a time, then Brienne voiced what had been nagging at her. ‘You had something you wished to discuss with me.’

‘I told you I saw you in the capital. At the time, I wore a gold cloak,’ he replied. ‘I know that you met with Jaime several times.’

_Too few._ He half-turned in the saddle and looked her up and down. ‘I have known Jaime Lannister since we were boys together. I knew him before he took the white cloak, and long before he became the Kingslayer.’ The man’s jaw was clenched. ‘That sword was a gift to Jaime from his father, may the Seven give him rest.’ he added. ‘And your suit, I assume, was what took him away from his duties to the armourer’s workshop so often in those weeks.’

Brienne was bewildered by his manner. ‘What is it you want from me, my lord?’

Marbrand didn’t reply. Brienne’s thoughts went to Jaime; she’d heard the news about Lord Tywin, back in Maidenpool; slain by the Imp, who had escaped the city. Jaime’s relationship with his father hardly seemed a warm one. He might mourn the loss of Tyrion more. Brienne remembered how staunchly he’d defended his brother in the matter of King Joffrey.

Then she thought of her own father, half a world away on Tarth, perhaps fearing to hear of her death every day, and of the brother she’d barely known. Galladon, her sisters, her mother, Lord Renly, Lady Catelyn, Ser Goodwin, even Cortnay Penrose, her father’s old comrade-in-arms, who’d visited Evenfall so often when she was young… all were dead.

_But I will live_ , she vowed. _Even if I too become nothing but a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings… I will live._

 

They moved north up the riverbank in the quiet hour before dawn, and soon Brienne could see the towers of Riverrun, and columns of smoke from the fires of the armies encamped around the castle. Marbrand and his riders crossed the outer picket line, waved through by the sentries, and were soon dismounting on the edge of the main camp. As early as this, the muddy thoroughfares were almost deserted. They passed a few Lannister soldiers heating water outside their tent, complaining about their watches, and a group of boys play-fighting in a copse of bare trees, enjoying the leisure before their masters rose.

Marbrand stopped outside a larger tent with a crudely drawn fleam symbol painted above the entrance. ‘In there is a barber who can tend your wound,’ he told Mya. ‘Perhaps the boy should stay with you. I might not be thanked for taking _three_ armed strangers into our command tent.’

Mya gave Brienne an uncertain look. ‘Will we be safe here?’

A cold smile flashed across Marbrand’s face. ‘I’ve heard the man is competent at his work, but I don’t think that’s what you were asking.’ He looked around, then crossed the way to talk to a guard who was lounging half-asleep against a post. When they were done, the man ripped off a salute and Marbrand returned to the group. ‘There. I told him you are my natural daughter. He has promised to watch over you, without imposing himself.’

‘Your _daughter_?’ demanded Mya.

‘Podrick,’ interjected Brienne, ‘you’ve been in Lannister camps before. You know how to fit in here.’ He nodded eagerly.

‘Use my name if anyone gives you trouble, boy,’ put in Marbrand. ‘Well? Are we all satisfied as to our safety?’ He looked at Brienne. ‘We should go. The pavilion is up there.’ She could see it; a great white tent with crimson-and-gold lion flags flapping in the wind, pitched on top of a rise overlooking the castle from the south.

‘Don’t stray too far from here,’ instructed Brienne. ‘I’ll come and find you when I can… or send word, at least.’

As they passed between the tents, Brienne felt the stares of the emerging soldiers, but she’d grown used to that by now. They climbed the path to the top of the rise, and from there Brienne had a better view of the disposition of the siege. Another army was camped on the north-west shore, with Frey banners; a third, a little further from the castle on the eastern bank, bore the devices of the river lords. Dawn had come, and a pinkish light tinted the edges of the clouds, and the battlements of the castle.

Brienne allowed Marbrand to lead her into the pavilion, but they found it empty, the fires doused and the maps rolled up on the great table. ‘Stranger take him, where’s he disappeared to? The rest of them, too. Daven?’ He called out of the tent to a passing squire. ‘ Lew!’ The boy appeared in the doorway, and Brienne saw them exchange words. When Addam returned to her, his face was taut. ‘The Lord Commander has gone to parley with the Blackfish. He hopes to negotiate the surrender of the castle. My fellow lords have gone to watch the result.’

‘It must be worth trying,’ suggested Brienne.

‘The last lord we sent to parley was driven off with an arrow in his horse’s backside. Let us pray that fortune is kinder to Jaime. We’ll wait for his return.’ Addam sat down on a camp stool, grimacing. ‘My fear is that he will challenge Tully to single combat. He always favoured the _immediate_ approach to problems.’

Brienne thought about that. Brynden Tully was reputed to be a great knight, though he must be almost the same age as Barristan Selmy. Jaime had been a supremely skilled swordsman – _the greatest I have ever fought, even in chains_ \- but how good was with his left hand? A thorough and mindful knight would spend time working with his off-hand. But Brienne thought of Jaime’s pride, and how it too often gave way to a lazy arrogance. Would a man, a _Lannister_ , who had been raised to the Kingsguard at sixteen, humbly approach a master-at-arms to be re-instructed in basic moves and stances?

‘Jaime never trained his left,’ she breathed, feeling the fear take hold.

Addam’s lip curled. ‘You do know him, then. You are right, my lady. Speak of this to no-one. Do not even _think_ it loudly. Jaime asked me to spar with him, when we first set out on this campaign. It was like fighting a seven-year-old page boy. Perhaps now you understand my concern.’

‘Surely Jaime would not throw his life away,’ whispered Brienne.

The man stood up again, and began to pace the room irritably. ‘Jaime has lost a great deal. He does not confide in me anymore, but I fear for his state of mind.’ He stopped to look at her. ‘My lady… you seem to appreciate direct speech. Let me ask, in that spirit: what are you to Jaime?’

‘You would be better off asking him that,’ said Brienne, to fill the silence.

‘I would, but I think he scarcely knows himself.’ Addam sighed, looking more perplexed than angered. ‘ _Why_ did he risk his life to save yours?’

That Brienne knew, although the answer was not one that made her feel any wiser. _He dreamed of me._ She couldn’t imagine Jaime drawing his sword on Tully. He’d tried it against the Mummers, fevered and wounded, in what she’d gradually come to realise was a bid for death. But she’d risked the wrath of their captors that night, and whispered in his ear, telling him to live, and fight, and take revenge.

They were painful memories, but whatever existed between her and Jaime had been born in that time, among the mud and shit and pus and Shagwell’s high-pitched laughter…

‘Jaime will not give up,’ she said.

Then there was a commotion outside, and Ser Addam’s expression turned into one of relief. He looked over Brienne’s shoulder and stood to attention. The tent flap swept open, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard entered, decked out in Lannister crimson and gold.

‘Waste of time, Addam.’ he said shortly. ‘Daven’s convening the lords here. We’ll make an end of it. If the old fool wants-…‘ his words died away as he caught sight of Brienne.

Jaime was still golden-haired. He had the same green eyes, but the mischief had gone from them, replaced by an unmistakable flashing anger. His colour was healthier than it had been on their journeys together, but there were dark rings under his eyes, more flecks of white in his beard, and deep lines on his forehead. _He looks older._

_‘_ Ser Jaime,’ she said hoarsely.

‘My lady? I… I had not thought to see you again so soon.’ She saw his eyes flickering up and down her. ‘That bandage… you’ve been wounded.’

‘A bite.’ She could see his concern, the question forming on his lips, but cut him off. ‘Ser – you gave me a quest. It has taken me here. I would speak to you in private.’

He stared at her in silence for a moment, then rubbed his good hand against his temple.

‘Brienne… your timing is appalling.’ A smile, a little more like his old self, lifted some of the lines from his face. ‘I have a war council to direct, here, _now_. I cannot invite you to be a part of it. Can your tidings wait an hour?’ Brienne nodded, and he went on. ‘I’m glad. I will settle matters here, then come and see you. Peck can show you to my tent.’

At that, Marbrand cleared his throat sharply and gave Ser Jaime a significant look. ‘My lord, your squire and his – she- they-‘ he trailed off, but the other man had grasped his meaning.

‘Ah? Well. Almost tempting to send the lady there regardless. That’s a meeting I’d pay good money to see. But it _would_ be impolite to a guest.’ Then he laughed, seeing Brienne’s confusion. ‘Forgive me, my lady. The rough jests of an old soldier. Addam, would put _your_ tent at our disposal?’

‘My lord,’ said Ser Addam with a bow, and motioned Brienne ahead of him. She gave Jaime a lingering look, then stepped out into the morning chill.

 

Marbrand’s tent was smaller but well-appointed, with red-and-gold drapings and all the trappings of a lord of the westerlands. In the middle, a large brazier smouldered, a weapons rack stood opposite the flaps, and a fur-lined bedroll was partially unrolled in one corner. There was also a small desk with a wooden stool, but Brienne didn’t want to presume to sit. Instead she paced restlessly around the floor, feeling like an interloper. For all her trepidation, she felt relieved when Jaime arrived sooner than promised.

Brienne was uncertain what to expect, but Jaime simply gave her a brisk nod as he swept past the guards and in. ‘Forgive me, my lady. The responsibilities of command.’ He gave her a wan smile. ‘You had news for me?’

‘Yes… Ser. I have found –‘ she hesitated, glancing at the flap and the soldiers outside, but Jaime waved his good hand dismissively. ‘The elder girl is… unharmed, ser. And safe. She did not wish to be taken anywhere else.’

‘And…’ he prompted. ‘Are you planning on telling me _where_ you found her?’

Brienne bit her lip. ‘The fewer people know, the fewer people will look for her. She is not with family, but she is protected.’ She looked apologetically into his eyes. ‘I swore to her that I would not share this knowledge.’

‘And we all know that the Maid of Tarth keeps her word,’ said Jaime, a little resentfully. ‘I must say I thought you’d come to trust me more than that. You know, I _could_ question Podrick, and this girl you’ve picked up. It would be the work of minutes to find out where you’ve been.’

‘I know that, Ser. But in the spirit of the oath we share, I ask you _not_ to make those enquiries.’

Jaime gave a mysterious little smile as he picked up a jug from Marbrand’s desk, and started to pour wine into a pair of goblets. He offered one to Brienne, the stem deftly balanced in the crook of his golden hand. ‘Oaths. Well… is that _all_ , my lady? May we drink a toast to an oath fulfilled?’

‘No, ser. The younger girl is alive. Or was. She was seen at Harrenhal, at the time your father occupied the castle.’ Jaime’s brow creased in surprise, and he took a swig of his wine. ‘You have in your service a girl named Pia. Ser Bonifer Hasty told me that she was in Harrenhal at the same time as… the girl we seek. She may remember something useful.’

‘If you want to speak to Pia, you can be my guest,’ shrugged Jaime. ‘She’s in my tent most nights, so not difficult to find.’ Then he caught Brienne’s expression and chuckled. ‘My lady, are you _jealous_? Perhaps I phrased that badly. She spends her nights in my tent, keeping my squire warm. I have remained true to my vows, more’s the pity.’ His face grew more serious, and he drained his cup. ‘Pia has been through a great deal, my lady. She was forced by many of my father’s soldiers, and beaten by the Mountain. Those who live through such horrors often… lock away part of their minds. I do not think this girl will be a great help to you. ’

‘I must try.’ Brienne hesitantly reached out and took the other goblet. ‘I… heard about your father, and your brother. I am sorry, Jaime.’

‘Thank you.’ He did not look up. Brienne took a sip of wine, and the silence dragged on until it became uncomfortable. She wanted to tell him of her journey, how she’d seen Red Ronnet’s bloodied face, her encounter with the Mummers, how she’d whispered ‘sapphires’ as the light left Rorge’s eyes. Something about Jaime’s manner made her bite her tongue.

‘Your parley failed, then?’ she tried. ‘Ser Addam feared that you would challenge Ser Brynden to single combat.’

‘Addam knows me too well,’ admitted Jaime. ‘I offered Tully precisely that. But he refused me – obviously he felt there was no honour in cutting down an old cripple. Although I could see in his eyes how much he _wanted_ to do it. Tully had no real interest in making terms. He wanted to give his horse some exercise, and throw a few insults at the Kingslayer.’

‘So what will happen? Will you starve him out?’

‘Tempting, if only because it’s the most inglorious end imaginable for an old warhorse like Tully. But we can’t spare the time. They have months of supplies piled up inside the walls. We have to end this, now. We’re going to assault the walls in the morning.’

Brienne stiffened at that, and looked at him in shock. ‘Ser! Part-part of your oath was to never take up arms against Lady Catelyn’s family, for as long as you live. Have you forgotten?’

‘I have not, Brienne. You know… it would be easy to remove myself from the assault. Have a pleasant ride around the woods, or simply shut myself in my tent. I could leave my cousin or Ser Addam in charge of the attack, come back when the fighting is done, and preserve my precious oaths. _But I will not do that_. I am the Lord Commander, I have been charged with the task of ending this war, and I must lead the men in person. It is my duty.’

Brienne’s face twisted in dismay. ‘You would abandon your sworn word so easily, ser?’

‘There is nothing _easy_ about it, wench. But I offered the old fool peace, and on lenient terms. He threw war in my face. This is his choice, not mine. We will climb the walls at dawn.’

‘Jaime, please. Ser Addam told me of… of your sparring session. I know that you are… not the swordsman you were.’

His face darkened. ‘Addam told you of that? You see, my lady? Everyone breaks oaths. It seems the only man in this camp I can trust is the man with no tongue.’

‘Ser Addam meant no harm, Jaime,’ managed Brienne, cursing her own loose tongue, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘He is concerned for you. In your gilded armour and white cloak, you will be a target. Tully and his men will seek you out.’

‘That they will,’ smiled Jaime ruefully. ‘I admired him so much, as a boy. I would have loved to fight him back when I was whole.’

‘If… if you insist on this course, let me defend you,’ she said thickly. ‘Let me fight by your side. I did not protect you for so long to let you throw your life away out of a fool’s pride.’

‘Did you mistake me for Renly?’ he scoffed. ‘Where would my _pride_ be once the world knows I need a woman to fight my battles for me?’

‘You have never looked at me as a woman, Jaime!’ declared Brienne with sudden vehemence. ‘Why start now? I will wear a full helm, and carry some other lord’s shield. Nobody will know who I am. I will simply be another knight. Do you doubt my abilities? You gave me this sword, ser. Was it a gift intended only to show the greatness of the giver? Does it so offend you that I want to use it?’

She subsided, red-faced. Jaime was silent for a moment. Then he walked over to within touching distance, and looked up into her eyes.

‘No, Brienne,’ he said, a little sadly. ‘It does not. You are the best protector a man could hope for. And that wouldn’t save you from being killed by an arrow in the first approaches. We will lose many good knights, whatever happens. I turn your accusation back at you, my lady – would you be so foolish as to throw your life away for mine? _You_ are not oathbound here.’

Brienne felt herself flushing, but managed a grimace of a smile. ‘There are other kinds of bonds. I cannot leave you to face death.’

Jaime turned and stepped away from her, clenching his fist. ‘Tully and his men are the ones who will die. He has no wife, no children, a lost cause. A good end in battle is all he has left.’

‘I would have liked to meet Ser Brynden,’ offered Brienne. ‘To speak with him about his niece, and the Stark girls. Both armies will lose good knights.’

‘If you’re so desperate to break bread with a Tully, you can always go across the river and speak with Lord Edmure on his gallows,’ snorted Jaime. ‘Though you may be disappointed. That one has half the brains of his father, who had half the brains of his brother.’

Brienne saw Jaime pause, almost _felt_ him holding his breath.

‘Lord Edmure Tully,’ he said to no-one in particular.

‘My lady,’ he said, looking up at her again. ‘Would you care to take a turn around our camps? I believe there is a way to end this siege today, without breaking any of my _most solemn_ oaths.’

 

They caught the ferry across the Red Fork, and Brienne looked distastefully around her at the raucous drunkenness of the Frey camp. Her throat tightened as she thought of Lady Catelyn’s fate. Brienne wished she could see the woman one more time, drink in her strength and decency, renew her vows to protect the girls. The stories were that these turncoats hadn’t even given her a proper burial, just dumped her in the river. Brienne could remember Septa Roelle telling her that the unconsecrated dead would wander restlessly in the world. The very least Lady Stark deserved was peace.

_Traitors and oathbreakers,_ she thought. _The Father will judge them harshly_. But the notion didn’t make her feel any better. As they trudged through the mud toward the gallows that had been erected for Lord Edmure, a camp follower latched onto Brienne, persistent in her offers of pleasure, until Brienne reached out and grabbed her roughly by her smock. ‘Look closely at me,’ she insisted. ‘There is nothing for you to wrap your lips around.’

But when the woman realised, she just laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Knight, lady, I’m not particular. I could make you happy either way.’ Brienne let the woman go and stomped off, face burning. She glanced to her side, half-expecting some bawdy taunt from Jaime, but he barely seemed to have noticed the encounter. _He is different here_ , she thought _. Weighed down with duties, and with no time to waste on baiting me_. That thought gave her an unexpected pang of regret.

Finally they stood at the foot of the platform, looking at the dishevelled prisoner who stood with a noose around his neck. A whispered word from Jaime convinced the guards to stand aside, and two of them climbed the steps . ‘My lady,’ said Jaime with exaggerated courtesy. ‘ I present Lord Edmure Tully, son of Hoster Tully.’

Brienne remembered her lady’s brother. He had auburn hair, under the filth, and his dry bloodshot eyes were Tully blue. ‘My lord. Brienne of Tarth. We met once before in this place.’

He looked at her in utter confusion, giving a faint nod before turning back to Jaime.

‘Kingslayer…,?’ he whispered through cracked lips.

‘The lady is my protector,’ smiled Jaime. ‘Only a fool would lower his guard among Freys.’ Tully’s face reddened at the insinuation, and he licked his lips to try some explanation. Jaime pressed on. ‘Are you enjoying your stay here, my lord? Singers, whores… it must remind you of your wedding night. You particularly like singers, don’t you?’

‘What do you want?’ croaked Edmure, averting his eyes.

‘You,’ said Jaime bluntly. ‘I have a proposal that you might want to hear. Brienne, cut his rope.’ She obeyed, and the man slumped onto his knees in front of them. She sheathed her sword and reached down an arm to help him up. Jaime had turned around in time to face the first alarmed Frey lords hurrying toward the gallows.

One of them, a pale thin man with lank hair, was waving his hands and crying out as he mounted the steps. ‘No! My father is coming… he comes, as fast as he can. Jaime, you must-‘

Brienne had moved across the platform and swung out an arm faster than she could think. All the power of her broad shoulders was in that punch, a great gauntleted fist connecting solidly with the man’s face. It almost knocked the Frey head over heels, and he landed hard in the mud below, half-insensible, drooling blood.

‘Address him as _my lord_ ,’ commanded Brienne. ‘And do not presume to give him orders. Be grateful that you are even here, and not rotting in the traitor’s grave you deserve.’

Another Frey, a tanned and solidly-built knight, was striding past the prone man, one hand on his swordbelt. ‘You just try that on me, woman,’ he growled. ‘Edwyn’s no fighter, but you’d better believe I am.’

‘Draw your sword if you must, Walder. I’m sure your father will soil himself laughing when he hears the tale of how his bastard got himself killed by a woman.’ Jaime had placed a gentle restraining hand on Brienne’s arm. ‘Well struck, my lady, but this is not the Frey who concerns me most. Ah! Here comes his lordship now…’

He raised his voice to address another man who’d stumbled into the back of the growing crowd, a huge jowly specimen, half-dressed and clearly half-drunken, arm still around some whore’s waist.

‘Lord Ryman!’ he called. ‘It pleases me to see you so quickly recovered from your illness. This prisoner is now in my custody. And _you_ are dismissed. Perhaps your son will serve me better, once he‘s back on his feet. See you are not in camp when the sun comes up.’

‘Come, Brienne,’ he added, and she followed him through the crowd, supporting Edmure Tully on one shoulder, feeling the hostile eyes of the men reluctantly parting before them.

 

They made their way back to Jaime’s pavilion, where he instructed his servants – two young squires and a girl with broken teeth – to draw a bath for Lord Tully. Jaime hadn’t spoken on the way back. Brienne still couldn’t see what he was planning.

Lord Tully was sat on a stool by the empty tub, looking around warily. His eyes settled on Brienne. ‘You were in Cat’s service,’ he said.

‘I still am, my lord. Lady Catelyn gave me a task. I am going about it with Ser Jaime’s help.’

‘His _help_?’ whispered Edmure. ‘You were escorting the Kingslayer as a prisoner. What made you enter his service? Gold?’ His eyes moved to Oathkeeper’s jewelled hilt.

Brienne felt bile rising in her throat. ‘I have never _served_ him. My lord… you do not know me. But Lady Catelyn trusted me, and that must mean something to you. Listen to what Ser Jaime says. He is a man of his word.’

‘Save your breath, Edmure,’ called Jaime, from the other side of the tent. ‘You and I have much to discuss.’ The girl was struggling up with the first pail of hot water, but Jaime reached out an arm. ‘Wait, Pia,’ he instructed. She stopped abruptly, spilling half the water. ‘Peck can finish filling Lord Tully’s bath. I have another task for you.’

_Pia?_ Brienne looked at her. She was above average height, pale and freckled. She might have been seventeen, or she might have been well into her twenties. She’d never had the knack of guessing ages.

‘This lady is Brienne, a friend of mine.’ Jaime’s tone was gentle and reassuring, as if he was talking to a child. ‘She is searching for a lost girl. We think you may have known her, once. She wants to ask you some questions about your time in Harrenhal. Are you happy to answer them?’

The girl’s bright eyes moved between Jaime and Brienne uncertainly, but she nodded.

‘Is there a place we can go?’ asked Brienne.

‘There’s a servants’ tent down the way,’ said the girl indistinctly, covering her mouth. Brienne felt a rush of sympathy, her tongue finding the gap in her jaw where the Mummers’ beating had knocked out two of her own teeth.

‘Show me,’ she said, giving what she hoped was an encouraging smile, and moved to follow the girl outside.

‘Brienne.’

She turned to look back at Jaime, who had moved a second stool next to Edmure Tully’s bath. He was looking up at her with a rueful expression. ‘This… may take some time. I’ll have Peck find a tent for you and the others. May I send for you when it’s over?’

 

 

It was the following dawn, a cloudier, murkier one, and word of the surrender had spread. Brienne was trudging down the riverbank, back through the Lannister camps, eventually finding Podrick and Mya sitting on a grassy rise overlooking Riverrun. The hillside was scattered with squires, soldiers, and camp followers, sitting in twos and threes, gathered to witness the end.

Pod scrambled to his feet when she approached. ‘My lady? Did you find her? The girl?’

Brienne felt like she had aged ten years. ‘I did, Podrick.’ She sat down beside them, with nothing more to say. They watched as the garrison trooped out of the gates. Marbrand was there with some of his men, supervising the surrender and stripping the defenders of their weapons. Last of all came the officers and knights.

‘Which one is Brynden Tully?’ asked Mya, flexing her arm, now properly cleaned and bandaged.

‘I don’t see him,’ admitted Brienne. The only figures visible in Tully red-and-blue were common soldiers. One more knight came out of the gateway, a stout man in white with a willow tree emblem. Brienne exhaled sharply. ‘That one I know. That is Ser Robin Ryger.’ The man who’d tried to kill them on the river, what seemed like a lifetime ago…

Then, to a scattered but growing cheer from the besieging lines, the direwolf banner was lowered inch by inch, soon disappearing from view beneath Riverrun’s unbloodied walls. Brienne looked down, her hands pulling out knots of dying grass. She felt a rush of pity for the Starks, and the river lords, and for all the men who’d fought and died for their homelands. The betrayal of the Freys was the one that would be remembered, but so many other lords had changed sides or bent the knee… was it so shameful to give up, rather than die for a lost cause? A year ago, she wouldn’t have asked the question.

‘That’s that then,’ said Mya.

‘It is.’ Painfully, Brienne clambered back to her feet. ‘My search has ended. You are dismissed from my service.’

Mya got to her feet too, brow knotted in vexation, words on her lips, but Brienne held up a placating hand. ‘One of Jaime’s captains plans to take a troop of men to Darry,’ she went on. ‘I will ask if you can accompany them. Perhaps they will give you an escort from there to the Gate.’

Brienne reached out, awkwardly placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Mya. I don’t think I know how to do that anymore. All the same… if you would be a friend to me, there is one service you could do me.’

Mya just nodded her head.

‘Ser Jaime and I are bonded by an oath,’ said Brienne. ‘We swore to ensure the safety of the Stark girls. A holy oath is no small matter, and I will not ask you to join us in it. But watch Lady Sansa for me. Try to make her happy. Let her know that she is not alone in the world.’

‘I will do that, my lady,’ said Mya slowly.’ It will be no hardship. I was fond of Alayne even… before.’

‘And Podrick. I am dismissing you, too. _Only for a time_ ,’ she added, looking away from the boy’s hurt expression. ‘I do not yet know what I will do next, but… I may have one more journey to make. Until I return, you can stay with Ser Jaime. He will watch over you. You served a Lannister once before.’

‘What journey?’ he asked. ‘Why can’t I come?’

Brienne didn’t answer.


	7. Riverrun II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, btw. 
> 
> AND NOW, THE END IS NEAR, etc

Jaime woke late that cold, snowy morning, fire burning low in his tower room. He could feel the chill in his bones. If winter hadn’t come, it was knocking at the door. He guessed that three hours had passed since dawn _. Podrick must have let me sleep in. He’s far too soft on me_. _I suppose my brother was a late riser_. The thought of Tyrion, and their bitter parting, gave him a jolt of pain.

He perched on the edge of the bed, and awkwardly tried to dress himself with his left hand. He’d starting refusing help from his squires and servants. It hardly seemed to be getting easier, though. He’d only just pulled his tunic around his shoulders when his first visitor of the day arrived.

Brienne stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back, looking as happy as he’d ever seen her. Her usual shy tight-lipped smile was bursting to reveal those crowded mismatched teeth. ‘Why so cheerful, my lady?’ he wondered out loud, unable to help himself returning the smile.

‘You ended the siege without bloodshed, ser, and without breaking your vows. The war is over.’

 _Seven gods_ , thought Jamie. _She’s proud of me_. _Better not to tell her how I finally convinced Tully to yield_. ‘It’s not over, Brienne. I still have to negotiate the surrender of Lord Blackwood at Raventree.’ He sighed. ‘And if winter is here, the war is not even the greatest of our worries…. ‘

He suddenly realised how dishevelled he must look, half-dressed, his gilded hand still lying unattached next to him. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep so long, my lady,’ he grumbled. ‘I hoped to at least be in one piece by the time you arrived.’

‘Let me help,’ offered Brienne. Jaime raised his eyebrows. _Well, she’s wiped my arse. I can hardly object to this_.

‘All right, then,’ he said, and Brienne stepped forward, crossing the room with her long strides and kneeling in front of him. She picked up the hand from its place at the foot of the bed and frowned at the apparatus.

‘The longer strap goes below my elbow, here,’ he prompted, rolling up the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Pull it tight.’ He bit his lip as she complied. ‘Then you twist the thing into place like – ah!’

‘Forgive me,’ she said softly, looking up from her work. Those transfixing blue eyes, bright with alarm, were just inches away from his.

‘No need,’ he breathed. ‘You’re gentler than Peck.’

Moving confidently now, Brienne tied the other cord in place to secure the hand. Jaime flexed his arm, nodding approval. She began to fasten his tunic, then stopped, hands clenching. She retreated two steps to stand in the middle of the chamber. ‘You should do that yourself,’ she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. ‘It’s good practice.’

Jaime just looked at her, scratching his beard. ‘As you say. So… what of your efforts, my lady? Did you speak to the girl?’

‘I did. Pia told me what she knew. She remembers the girl from Harrenhal. She was going by the name of Nan, but everyone called her Weasel. She served as your father’s cupbearer for a time. She spent time with two other children; a baker boy and an apprentice blacksmith. Pia doesn’t remember their names, or where they went.’

‘Not much to go on,’ commented Jaime. The wench merely shrugged her great shoulders in response. ‘Gods, though, that’s a strange thought. The most hunted girl in the realm, right under my father’s nose, pouring his wine! Tyrion would hurt himself laughing.’

‘The girl must be smart to have survived so long,’ he went on. ‘If the gods are good, she’ll forget that she was ever a Stark. She’ll live the rest of her life under some other name, and not have to live in fear of Lannister soldiers.’ He looked up at Brienne again, and motioned her to the seat at the foot of the bed. ‘Come over here.’

Brienne complied hesitantly, folding herself into the chair, hands grasped primly in her lap. Jaime leaned over, and placed his hand atop hers.

‘Lady Stark is gone,’ he said flatly. ‘She can no longer absolve you of your vows. _You_ must decide whether you have done enough. You have travelled through half of the land. You have faced untold dangers. You have fought to protect the innocent, and risked your life a hundred times.’ He smiled a little, seeing her lips twitch. ‘I did talk to Pod and Mya, my lady. Forgive me that.’

‘Sansa is safe, you say. So be it. Your judgement is one I trust. And Arya… is a great deal better off than we both feared. My lady, if _my_ opinion carries any weight with you at all… I consider your oath fulfilled.’ With that, he squeezed her hands.

Colour rushed to Brienne’s face, and she looked down into her lap. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘But… my journey is not over,’ she persisted. ‘Walking in these halls once again has helped me decide. Lady Catelyn is gone, ser, you are right. In her absence, I think only a member of her family could declare me free of my oath. I still intend to speak to Ser Brynden. I have heard that he was the closest to her, in spirit.’

Jaime started. ‘And… how did you hope to accomplish this, my lady?’ he wondered, a little strain entering his voice.

‘You sent Ser Addam and his men to search the Red Fork for him. I would join them in their hunt. I met Ser Dermot gathering supplies in the keep.’ The girl paused and jutted out her chin. ‘He raised no objection to me riding out with him.’

 _Ser Dermot of the Rainwood. A rough-edged hedge knight, full of tall tales and idiot bravery._ ‘Brienne…’ he began impatiently. ‘The Blackfish is a dangerous man, and outlawed. When he sees you riding with Lannister soldiers, he will not be in the mood to make friendly conversation with you.’

‘I have to try,’ she said simply.

 _Outlaws and wolves and gods know what else. She’ll get herself killed_ , he thought. _For months I feared that I’d sent the wench to her doom, and just when she comes back…_

He exhaled sharply and rose, walking across to the window. In the yard below, he could see pages and squires turned back into children by the snowfall, fighting a hundred-sided snowball war. _Well, it’s cleaner than the other kind_. After a few moments, he heard Brienne rising from the chair and coming to stand behind him.

‘Does it ever snow on Tarth, my lady?’

She seemed stunned by the question. ‘I-it did, in the last winter. I was only a child.’

Jaime was strangely amused by that. He couldn’t picture Brienne as a young girl. ‘And did you build forts, and fight snow battles?’

‘We were the only highborn family on the island,’ she said vaguely. ‘And by that time, my… I had no brothers or sisters. I had few companions. But yes, I remember playing in the snow with my father.’

There was a heavy silence.

‘Go back to him, Brienne,’ he said softly. ‘How long have you been away? A year? Two? There are hard times coming for everyone.’ He turned to look at her.

The wench met his gaze, and shook her head stubbornly. Jaime knew the discussion was over.

‘I should go with you,’ he whispered. _I could_ , he thought. _Daven could deliver the king’s terms to Raventree._ But then he remembered the expression Ser Brynden had fixed on him during the parley, and Lord Edmure’s hissed words of hatred after the surrender. _I would only bring more danger down on her._

‘Alas… I cannot. These days I am ill-suited to such work, and hardly inconspicuous in my white and gold.’ It was a face-saving explanation, but something in Brienne’s eyes made him go on and say more than he intended. ‘Tully despises me, as does the rest of the world,’ he muttered. ‘Whatever I do now, I will always be judged by my past deeds. I will always be the Kingslayer.’ He averted his eyes from her, and looked unseeingly out into the whitened landscape.

He heard the wench take a deep breath, then felt her close strong fingers around his arm.

‘You saved a city, and asked for no reward,’ Brienne said gently. ‘You saved my virtue, and my life. Now you have brought the kingdoms to peace, without spilling blood. Let men speak as they will. I know what you are.’

Then she leaned across, and kissed him once on the forehead.

He bowed his head, unable to face her, but took her hand in his, feeling the warmth in her rough callused skin.

‘Brienne…’ he said, when he felt able to speak. ‘ _Please_ take care. Watch Addam for me, too. I fear… I have not done enough for those who are dear to me.’

They stood, hands joined, hearing the laughter drifting up from the courtyard. Jaime realised that he couldn’t remember ever hearing Brienne laugh. _She’s had little enough joy since she crossed paths with me_. _What would it sound like? Probably a great, horsey bray, about as ladylike as she is._

Jaime heard the footsteps approaching, then a discreet cough. Brienne immediately stepped away and tried to pull her hand out of his. He held on for a moment, long enough to draw a questioning glance, then relented and let her go. He turned around to see Peck looking apologetic in the doorway, and a grey-bearded maester fidgeting behind him.

‘I had no wish to intrude, my lord… but there is a message…’ began Vyman.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Jaime. ‘A white bird from the Citadel. Winter has come.’

‘No, my lord. The bird was from King’s Landing. I took the liberty… I did not know…’ He held the letter out. Jaime took it and walked to the window, reading the words in the light of that cold clear morning.

‘Does my lord wish to answer?’ the maester asked, after a long silence.

‘ _No_.’ said Jaime, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Put this in the fire, Peck.’

 

Ser Dermot of the Rainwood had gathered his thirty men on the banks of the Tumblestone. It was a stinking grey dawn, with sleet-tinged rain pouring down, soaking the assembled riders. The Lord Commander stood at the head of the gathered company, wrapped up in furs and leading a horse.

‘Good hunting, Dermot,’ called Jaime. ‘I don’t envy you, in weather like this.’

Ser Dermot grinned. ‘You’ve spent too long in the city, Lannister. I’ve slept out in much worse than this.’

It was insolence, but Jaime let it pass. There was nothing to be gained upbraiding the hedge knight in front of his men. ‘Where are you headed first?’

‘The Whispering Wood,’ he said. ‘Few men know forest tracking as well as I do. If we find nothing there, we’ll head north. As far as the Twins, if need be, or further.’

‘And what will you do if Addam finds Tully before you?’ he said, feeling the need to prick the man’s ego.

Dermot just snorted. ‘The Blackfish won’t go south. What’s in the south for a Tully? My gut tells me he’ll go north, seek shelter with the crannogmen or whatever’s left of the Stark bannermen. Marbrand’s wasting his time looking down there.’

‘Remember what I said at Darry,’ cautioned Jaime. ‘The smallfolk will only shelter outlaws if you make enemies of them. And if you find Ser Brynden, take him alive.’

‘That’s up to him, and the Seven,’ sniffed Dermot. ‘I will try,’ he added, seeing his commander’s expression. He gave a salute and moved off down the riverbank. His men began to follow him at intervals. Jaime worked his way down the column until he found one rider in particular.

Brienne hadn’t yet mounted up. She stood as tall and strong as ever, clad in the armour he’d given her, Oathkeeper belted around her waist. Over it all was a fur-lined cloak of deepest blue, something he’d found in Riverrun, the property of some long-departed Tully.

‘Blue is still your colour, my lady.’ Brienne nodded, her hair already sodden and hanging over her face.

‘You returned one of my three gifts,’ he continued, mock-scoldingly. ‘So I will give you another. Scouting companies always need spare horses. Please accept this one. He is named Honour. There is no-one I would rather entrust him to.’

She accepted the reins wordlessly. Absurdly, Jaime too felt tongue-tied, for once unable to find the glib words that normally came to him so easily. He dug into the wet ground with his boot and sighed.

‘Why are we always saying goodbyes, Brienne?’ he demanded.

Brienne managed a half-smile. ‘You set me about this task, ser. You cannot complain about it now.’ She was staring at him with those sapphire eyes, forehead slowly creasing with concern. Her voice turned softer. ‘I hope our parting will not be so long this time. Where wlll you go, Jaime? After Raventree?’

‘To the capital, of course. Tommen needs me. I am still a knight of the kingsguard.’

‘I know _that,_ ’ she murmured.

The blood seemed to rush to Jaime’s head. Spurred on by some mad fancy, he reached out and took her into his arms. It was only a loose embrace; his hands were around her armoured waist, and her hands came up and gripped his arms. He heard her gasp in a sharp breath, saw her face begin to turn red…

Then he let go.

‘My lady,’ he said, feeling stupid. ‘Forgive me.’

Brienne shook her head. ‘No need,’ she whispered, so faintly that Jaime wondered if he’d imagined it. Her eyes were wide and shining, _sparkling_ …

‘Go,’ groaned Jaime, looking away. ‘You don’t want to fall behind the column.’

She let out a deep sigh, her breath clouding in the cold air, and bowed her head, turning to mount her horse and depart. Jaime stood and watched her go, his whites turned grey and sopping in the rain.

This time, she didn’t look back.


	8. Epilogue

Jaime sat in his saddle outside the walls, listening to Ser Kennos sound his horn. Emmon Frey’s guards were lax, and it took minutes before the outer gates creaked open. It seemed the man entrusted with the peace of the riverlands could barely run his own castle. _I must have words with Aunt Genna before I leave here._

‘There’s some of Kevan in you, or you wouldn’t wear that cloak,’ she’d said. Perhaps she was more right than he knew. This hadn’t been a campaign of daring charges and glorious victories. He’d settled Raventree, and ended the war, but all he felt was the grim satisfaction of a duty accomplished. Few men were more dutiful than Uncle Kevan, and if the reports of his sister’s imprisonment were true, he now he had a whole kingdom to oversee.

Jaime had his duties too. He would spend a few more days attending to matters in Riverrun, then set off for King’s Landing again. Return to his Sworn Brothers, that shower of cut-throats and oafs who would have shamed any other Lord Commander. Face Kevan, with all his scowls and disapproval. Face Cersei, and all the things _she’d_ done. Face Tommen, the sweet son he could never let himself get close to, and the scheming Tyrells and the angry Dornishmen and the self-righteous septons and every other damned thing…

All in all the prospect gave him more dread than he’d ever felt in the Whispering Woods. All Jaime had ever wanted was a sword in hand and an army at his back. _And perhaps a brave comrade by my side_. _Father, give her strength…_

The column, so depleted now compared to the thousand that had galloped out of the Mud Gate, trotted into the outer yard of Riverrun, wet and muddy and flickeringly lit by torches. There were no knights or guards to be seen, but a familiar figure came running out to greet them, almost stumbling down the steps from the keep.

‘Commendably diligent, Pod,’ yawned Jaime, at the head of the group. ‘I bet my other squires are still abed. What’s been happening?’

‘There was a raven, my lord. With a message. Yesterday.’ The boy flapped the paper at Jaime, struggling to recapture his breath.

Jaime dismounted – he was getting better at it with one hand - and took the paper from Podrick, holding it to the nearest torch. He could see the seal of Uncle Kevan, but recognised the spidery handwriting as Pycelle’s. _Some things never change. Father is dead, Tyrion is gone, Cersei is in a cell, but that old man will always find a Lannister to attach himself to._

‘An army of sellswords landing at Cape Wrath?’ It was yet another trouble for the kingdom to bear, but he could hardly see what had the boy so excited. Still… if this was Stannis, where would he have found the coin? Was there really treasure in the vaults of Dragonstone?

‘Read it all, my lord,’ shivered Pod. Jaime’s eyes reached the last lines, and he caught his breath.

_Estermont. The Stepstones. And Tarth._

Jaime felt like he’d been struck. He brought his gilded hand to his forehead. ‘This… this is…’

Ser Kennos had dismounted and joined them. ‘Lord Commander? What is it?’

Jaime’s mind was already racing _. Send a messenger for Addam, get his outriders back. Tully can wait. Daven can spare some men, though I can’t strip his force bare. We can catch up with Strongboar at Darry, and bring a few of his boys on board. I could ride back into King’s Landing with close to a thousand men… and surely the Tyrells would want to be seen to contribute..._

 _‘_ I’ve prepared two horses, my lord,’ said Pod, eyes wide. ‘I’m ready to go now.’

Ser Kennos just looked bewildered.‘Go _where_? Are you moonstruck, boy? What is this, my lord?’

Jaime smiled at the boy. ‘A lesson, Pod. Being Lord Commander means you don’t have to do everything yourself.’ _And if you and I ride through these lands alone, we’ll most likely end up dangling from one of these trees._

‘Change of plans, Kennos,’ said Jaime, turning. ‘We’re leaving for King’s Landing at dawn. Check the mounts and get the men supplied.’ The man looked satisfied and nodded his head.

Then Jaime allowed himself to think of Brienne. His father was gone, and his home was falling apart. _She_ still had both of those things.

‘But we’re making a stop along the way.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The canon divergence fic reaches the end of the canon and sputters to a halt.
> 
> I am going to continue this - how else are we going to pass those two or three geological epochs until TWoW appears? - but as a separate work. Writing post ADWD fic feels like building on sand (so many unknowns!) but we'll see how it goes.
> 
> So... this was fun. I hammered it out (relatively) quickly and it was a good exercise for me. Some of it does look rushed in hindsight. 
> 
> I should also say that before I wrote this I spent about a month binge-reading every major J/B fic on this site. Deepest apologies if I unconsciously cribbed any of your lines/scenes/ideas. BUT you’re all great, obviously. [tickertape parade]


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